


Paris is a Place in Which We Can Forget Ourselves

by enjolrasisjudgingyou



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Grantaire, Bossuet's Terrible Luck, Cliffhangers, Combeferre & Enjolras Platonic Life Partners, Courfeyrac (Les Misérables) is a Good Friend, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire is super sweet, Enjolras Is Bad At Communicating, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/M, Feuilly and Bahorel brOTP - Freeform, Fluff, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Grantaire is a Mess, M/M, Multi, Oblivious Enjolras, One-Sided Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pining Grantaire (Les Misérables), Quotes for Chapter Titles, Some Humor, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasisjudgingyou/pseuds/enjolrasisjudgingyou
Summary: Grantaire had a problem. Well, he had many, but he couldn’t seem to get this particular one out of his head, these days especially. It kept him up until 2am every night, trying to drown his feelings in cheap wine.His problem was six foot tall, golden-haired, ethereally beautiful Enjolras. Passionate, self-assured, deceptively charismatic Enjolras. He always carried himself with the utmost confidence, never caring about what others thought of him. A charming, intense, determined man, he was everything Grantaire wasn’t and everything he wished he could be. In short, Grantaire had fallen for him, and it was safe to say he was completely fucked.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire/Montparnasse (Past), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. Wine Enters Through the Mouth, Love, the Eyes. I Raise the Glass to My Mouth, I Look at You, I Sigh

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! This is my very first story on Ao3. I hope it goes well and you all enjoy it! I honestly have no idea what I'm doing. :P

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get tense in the musain...off to a good start amiright 
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from William Butler Yeats)

Grantaire had a problem. Well, he had many, but he couldn’t seem to get this particular one out of his head, these days especially. It kept him up until 2 am every night, trying to drown his feelings in cheap wine.

His problem was six foot tall, golden-haired, ethereally beautiful Enjolras. Passionate, self-assured, deceptively charismatic Enjolras. He always carried himself with the utmost confidence, never caring about what others thought of him. A charming, intense, determined man, he was everything Grantaire wasn’t and everything he wished he could be. In short, Grantaire had fallen for him, and it was safe to say he was completely fucked. 

Enjolras was The Les Amis de ABC’s founder and leader. Grantaire had stumbled into the back room of Cafe Musain and into a Les Amis meeting one day (probably the result of him being intoxicated) and once he was there, he couldn’t leave. Grantaire stayed until the very end, listening to the speech Enjolras was giving at the front of the room. His intense blue eyes were ignited with a fiery passion, and he held the attention of everyone in the room, including Grantaire’s. Enjolras spoke powerfully, his words inspiring and emotional. 

Ever since then, and despite his best interests, Grantaire attended the Les Amis meetings, eventually becoming a member himself. He made good friends with the others in the group, especially the brunette named Eponine. She was a pessimistic, sardonic person, but then again, so was he. However, unlike Grantaire and the rest of the Amis, who were students at the local university, Eponine worked multiple jobs and did her best to look after Gavroche, her 12-year-old brother. He was a rebellious, mischievous kid who loved to cause trouble, always defying his teachers at school and pulling pranks. Eponine tried to discourage him from acting out, but there was only so much she could do. 

Eponine, like Grantaire, was also hopelessly in love with another member of the Les Amis de ABC. It was Marius Pontmercy, who had joined the group just recently thanks to Courfeyrac. He was a romantic, somewhat distractible person who was prone to accidents. Marius always meant well, but it often came out wrong. Still, he was a kind-hearted person and never hesitated to stand up for others. 

Eponine had been close friends with Marius for a while, but had never been able to capture his attention in a more intimate way. And when Cosette Fachelevent, the adopted daughter of Jean Valjean, moved to town, Marius had fallen head-over-heels in love with her, and her with him as well. Cosette was all he would ever talk about, all he would ever think about. 

With that, Eponine’s already slim chances with Marius had been reduced to nothing. Still, she followed him around like a lost puppy and did whatever favors he asked of her, but Grantaire knew that it must break her heart even more than it did before now that Marius was openly crushing on Cosette.

Despite being friends with all of the members of the Les Amis, Grantaire had yet to come even close to befriending their leader, the one person he really, really wanted to. So instead, Grantaire did his best to capture Enjolras’s attention in any way he could, which meant shooting off snide remarks during meetings, mocking his ideals, and starting rather explosive arguments with him. And today’s meeting was certainly no exception. 

Perhaps it was even worse than usual. 

“We need to get more attention from the media for our next rally,” Enjolras began. He had taken his place at the front of the room besides his best friends and right-hand men Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “It will draw more people in and direct awareness to our cause.” 

Courfeyrac removed the pencil he was chewing on the end of from his mouth to speak. “I was thinking we start with social media. Get the word out there. With all the followers I have---”

Everyone let out a collective groan. Courfeyrac was, simply put, a little addicted to social media. And for some reason, he was even more than usual lately. 

Courfeyrac gave everyone his famous, gap-toothed smile and rolled his eyes in response. Across from him, Combeferre cleared his throat to regain the ever-fleeting attention of the group. “As much as I hate to admit it, Courf’s right. Almost everyone is on social media nowadays. It’s the best way to reach out to people and spread our message.” 

Enjolras nodded in agreement. “So for anyone that has any kind of social media account, which is...all of you, I presume,” he grimaced, “please post updates regularly to inform the public of our upcoming rally.” The room responded positively with a chorus of “sures,” “okays,” and “why nots.” 

Beside him, Courfeyrac let out a whine. “But it’ll ruin my aesthetic on Instagram, Enj.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “Why’d you suggest the idea of using social media if you’re not going to?” 

“Well, you just don’t use Instagram! That’s reserved for pictures of hot chicks, amazing selfies, epic parties, and wild nights out with friends. Not rally stuff.” 

Enjolras dragged a hand down his face in defeat while Combeferre anxiously shuffled beside him.

Meanwhile, Grantaire, who had been waiting for an opportunity to jump in, saw his chance and took it. 

“Hey Apollo, why are you making everyone post political propaganda on their social media when you don’t even have one?” he jeered, “seems a little unfair to me.” 

Enjolras immediately spun around to face Grantaire, a scowl already forming on his face. “Ah, here we go again…” Eponine muttered from where she was sitting beside Grantaire. 

“I’ve never had the need for a social media account. It’s just not for me,” he spoke slowly, trying to contain the anger that Grantaire brought out in him so often. Grantaire scoffed loudly. “Well sure, you don’t need one, but feel free to dictate how we use ours.” 

Enjolras’s face was as red as his jacket now. He told himself that he wouldn’t let Grantaire get to him today. He wouldn’t. The meeting, and his afternoon, had gone fairly well up to this point. But Grantaire was just repulsive to him. Everything he did and said just made Enjolras’s blood boil. The man seemed to be getting on his nerves a lot more lately and his patience for him was wearing thinner each day. 

Grantaire sat back in his chair with a smug grin on his face. On the outside, he looked calm and complacent, but his heart was racing inside his chest. Enjolras was shooting daggers at Grantaire with his eyes, which wasn’t anything new, that was the way he always looked at him. But seeing those light blue, no--- _ cerulean,  _ he reminded himself---eyes trained on him and no one else always made his stomach flip-flop. For a little bit, just a little bit, he had all of Enjolras’s attention, even if it was in a scathing way. 

Enjolras was about to spit a harsh retort back at him when Courfeyrac leaned over and whispered something in his ear. His frown grew wider, and he shook his head, disagreeing with whatever his friend just told him. 

“No, we’re going to use your idea, Courferyrac! I don’t think anyone in this room besides  _ Grantaire,”  _ he sneered, “has a problem with it.” 

At that, everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably in their seats. It was true, they didn’t have a problem with making posts about the rally. And they knew in his heart Grantaire probably didn’t either. But he was determined to antagonize Enjolras however he could. 

“I guess you’re right. I do have a problem with it.  _ Some _ people just don’t like others telling them how to live their lives.” Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows, taunting him. He really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was.

Enjolras was infuriated. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his side, trying to resist the very strong urge to walk over and smack Grantaire in the nose. He had no desire to control other people’s lives, only make them better. Grantaire had been coming to the Amis meetings for years, and Enjolras didn’t get why he couldn’t understand that. Why was Grantaire there if he didn’t believe in anything Enjolras believed in and worked so hard to accomplish? Before he could think of something to retort back, Grantaire spoke again. 

“You’re clenching your fists pretty hard there. If you’re thinking of punching me, you probably shouldn’t. You know I box, right?” He smirked, showing off his slightly crooked teeth. 

That was the last straw for Enjolras. He slammed his right fist down on the table beside him, startling everyone.  "Grantaire, you're incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death.” 

The room went silent, and all eyes slowly turned towards Grantaire. His teasing smile had faltered for what seemed to be half of a second before he plastered it on once more, doing his best to keep his careless attitude. “Whatever you say, Apollo,” he said before taking a large gulp out of his beer can. Enjolras stared at him, shaking with fury. 

“Meeting adjourned,” he said finally, and turned his back to the room, muttering something under his breath. Nobody made a move to get up until Combeferre cleared his throat.

Enjolras was still shaking when everyone had left, anger untamed. Combeferre gently laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it firmly. “Enjolras,” he calmly said, “that wasn’t---”

“What the fuck was that, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac cried, ignoring the way Combeferre was delicately trying to handle the matter. Combeferre let out an exasperated sigh. 

“You can’t just say things like that!” Courfeyrac continued. “I know you guys argue but dude, that was heartless.”

Enjolras scowled. “So what, he’s allowed to constantly interrupt our meetings and mock our ideals but I’m not allowed to state the truth about him?”

“I don’t know! Just argue like you guys normally do! Don’t be an asshole!” Courfeyrac threw his hands up in the air in defeat. He looked over at Combeferre desperately. “‘Ferre? Help?” 

Combeferre let go of his grip on Enjolras and took a deep breath, carefully choosing his next words. He knew his best friend well, well enough to know that he didn’t always think rationally when he was angry. “Enjolras, Grantaire can be beyond irritating sometimes, I know. But you have to be the mature one here. Don’t let him get to you.” 

Enjolras sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, especially where Grantaire was concerned, he knew Combeferre was right. He had to control his temper better. 

“Alright. I’ll work on it.” He gave his friends a reassuring smile and flung his knapsack over his shoulder. “Let’s get home. I’ve had a long day.” 


	2. Here's to Alcohol, the Rose-Colored Glasses of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a hangover, the stars, the color cerulean, and one pumped up law student
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do people even write here? i don't know...umm...you guys want a fun fact? sure, why not! did you know old vicky's middle name was...marie??? yeah, no joke. "Victor Marie Hugo." huh. who would have guessed? :)

A few hours after the meeting, Grantaire stumbled into his apartment, his mind cloudy and vision blurry. Once again, he’d had too much to drink. Attempting to walk to his bedroom, he tripped over a pile of dirty clothes strewn across the floor and fell on his face. “Fuck!” He cursed. His head hurt terribly. Why did he always do this to himself? 

With the little strength he had left, Grantaire pulled himself off the floor and onto his unsteady feet. The memory of his fight with Enjolras earlier replayed itself over and over again in his mind. God, why did he always have to take it too far? Grantaire knew the kind of reaction his words would provoke in Enjolras. He just couldn’t help himself. Enjolras was stunning when he was angry; his strong, slender face flushed red with irritation, his rosy pink lips curved downwards into a disdainful look, and his bright eyes, burning furiously with a passion unlike anything Grantaire had ever seen.  _ Enjolras  _ was unlike anything Grantaire had ever seen. 

The world in front of Grantaire was spinning now. It was nauseating. He was nauseating. 

Grantaire threw up. 

***

It was around 4am now, and Grantaire was trying and failing to sleep off what was going to become a very rough hangover. He hadn’t slept well in a  _ long _ time and it was really wearing him down. All those late nights sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine in his hand, desperately trying to wash his feelings away...it just wasn’t working anymore. None of it was.

Grantaire slowly picked himself off of his bed, groaning as he did so, and made his way over to his painting easel. He had set it up by the large window in the corner of his room. The window didn’t have a great view, just a look out onto the rooftops of other buildings, but if you glanced up from a certain angle you could see the moon and some scattered stars. Sometimes, if he’d had a particularly bad day or just needed a smoke, Grantaire would remove the screen on it and climb out onto the large roof of the next door building. It was also the perfect place to stargaze. He had drawn countless sketches of the night stars, along with the Paris skyline **.** Tonight, however, he was staying inside. 

He clicked on the small table lamp beside it and winced when the light hit his eyes, cursing under his breath. Rubbing his temples, he lowered himself down on the small wooden stool in front of the easel and began to dig through his art supplies. They were the only thing he really spent a good amount of money on. Everything else in his apartment, including his wine, was extremely inexpensive and of poor quality. 

Grantaire usually had trouble deciding what to paint, but there was only one thing on his mind tonight. He searched through his paint colors, trying to remember the exact ones that he needed. “Crimson,” he muttered, “his jacket is...crimson? Hair...gold, of course.” 

Grantaire had almost all of his paints picked out when he suddenly stopped. His eyes. How could he forget? “Cerulean,” Grantaire whispered in the quiet of his bedroom. “Enjolras’s eyes are cerulean.” He smiled to himself and grabbed the cerulean paint tube out of its box. 

For the next few hours, Grantaire fully absorbed himself in his work. The repetitive stroking of his brush on the canvas had lulled him into a trance-like state, and he completely blocked out the world around him. He was lost in a sea of crimson, gold, and cerulean. 

If it wasn’t for the loud, obnoxious banging on his door two hours later, Grantaire would have continued on painting until he physically was unable to. The annoying presence knocking on his apartment door reminded him that yes, there was a world outside and he had to deal with it. 

“No solicitors!” He yelled from inside his room, focus still on the canvas. It was frustrating. He could never get it right. He could never capture the way---

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. “I said no fucking solicitors!” Grantaire yelled louder. His splitting headache resurfaced, a harsh reminder of all the drinking he did last night. The banging still didn’t stop. 

Cursing loudly, Grantaire stomped out of his room and into the main one, pausing only to fling a cover over his canvas. He flung the front door open, the harsh words “fuck off” already halfway out his mouth. 

“Whoa dude, you look like shit,” it was Bahorel. The brash, muscular law student stood in front of him, gym bag on his shoulder. “You doing okay? Or at least slightly less worse than normal?” 

Grantaire flipped him off in response, and Bahorel laughed heartily. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Enjolras was pretty crappy at last night’s meeting. But don’t let it get to you, eh? You were an asshole yourself. God, you two argue like an old married couple…” He trailed off. “Anyways, we’re boxing this morning, remember? Hurry up and get ready.” 

Grantaire groaned. As much as he loved his friend’s company, he was hoping to be left alone today. “I’m hungover, Bahorel. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

Bahorel just grinned wickedly. “Why do I care if you’re hungover? You’ll be easier to hit, not that I need the help. But get your stuff.” He shifted the weight of his bag onto his other shoulder and held up his hands. “I’m counting down,” he began, “ten...nine…” 

Grantaire cast a longing glance back at his room where his unfinished painting still sat, waiting for him to return to it. His brushes were probably drying out as they spoke. The tarp over his canvas could be sticking to it, ruining all of his work. And did he even remember to close the caps on all of his paints? Instinctively, Grantaire started towards his bedroom, but Bahorel shouted, “ _ one _ !” and grabbed his arm and gym bag, which he had unfortunately left by the door. He was dragged down the doorstep and into his friend’s car, protesting the entire way. 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fun!’ Bahorel said as he put the key in the ignition. “For me!” 


	3. It Takes Nothing to Join the Crowd. It Takes Everything to Stand Alone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flirtatious fools + fairy tales
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from Hans F. Hansen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. another fun fact, because i really don't know what to write here. les miserables consists of 365 chapters, 48 books, and, wait for it, a whopping 655,478 words. wowee. however, i am wondering what percentage of that word count is made up of vicky's off topic rambles...just saying! :) all in all, it's a wonderful story.

Enjolras swiftly navigated his way through the streets of Paris, not stopping to enjoy the beauty of the early morning sunrise or the way its reflection glistened on the Seine. Stopping to enjoy the simple pleasures in life was something he quit doing long ago. In his opinion, there were much more important things to do than cloud gaze and pick flowers. Jehan, the poet of their group, was always telling Enjolras to “savour the moment” but he found himself looking to the future instead. Enjolras had so much he wanted to accomplish in what seemed to him like so little time. As far as he was concerned there wasn’t any room to mess around. 

Yesterday’s meeting at the Musain had left him in a foul mood. He promised Courfeyrac and Combeferre that he would work on controlling his temper, and he would, but Grantaire--- _ Grantaire- _ \--god, even thinking about him made Enjolras angry. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Focus on the end objective. The rally. 

There was still an incredible amount of work to do to prepare for it, and along with keeping up with his university classes, Enjolras was feeling a little stressed. This wasn’t the first rally Enjolras and the Amis had organized, but it was the most important one yet. Last year’s protest went well enough, as it lasted for a few hours and brought in a good-sized crowd, but Enjolras still couldn't tell himself it was a success. He knew he could do better. 

A sharp wolf-whistle suddenly broke his thought process, and Enjolras stopped speed walking. He looked to see a pair of kids about his age pulled up beside him on the street in a rather broken-down coupe. “Hey blondie, how’s it going? You’d look prettier if you smiled.” The shorter of the two males in the car leaned out and flashed Enjolras a sleazy smile. The other laughed. 

Enjolras glowered at them. “I’m disgusted by people like you. You think women are objects, toys, things you demand and play with at your own will, without concern for the latter. You think women are to be won with brawn and lust and be shown off like a prize. You think every woman on the street is begging to climb in bed with you and that you’re doing a favor by giving her a one night stand. No woman in her right mind would sleep with you, you chauvinist assholes.” 

The boys were quiet for a moment, just studying Enjolras and seeing that close up, yes, he was indeed a man. Enjolras wished he could say he wasn’t used to being mistaken for a female, but he was. He had a strong jaw but delicate features and was tall and slender, his muscles being spread out instead of compacted. Though Enjolras’s hair was what really confused everyone. It was golden and curling, trailing all the way down to the middle of his back. He normally tied it away out of his face, but today he had been in a rush and had forgotten. 

One of the males let out a loud, ridiculous laugh. “Well,” the tall one sneered, “what a little son of a bitch. Sticking up for all the women, huh? We got ourselves a little _feminist_ , Andre.” 

Enjolras glared at them. He should just walk away from these assholes and continue on with his day. He had a lot of things to do. But with every snicker they gave him, every mocking gesture, the anger bubbling inside him threatened to overflow. The short one, Andre, gave him a pouting smile.

“Something wrong, Goldilocks?” 

And then it did. 

“Get out,” Enjolras growled, his voice low and heavy. 

They gasped in fake fear. “You’re gonna beat us up?” 

“Do you fucking want me to?”

Both men let out another obnoxious laugh. “I’d like to see you try,” Andre said. But he was getting out of the car, along with his friend. “This is gonna be like punching a flower.” 

Enjolras gritted his teeth. If he was smart, he would have apologized. Maybe even run away. But he had never backed down from anything before, especially when defending his beliefs, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. 

So, on a nearly deserted street in the early morning light of Paris, Enjolras balled his hands into a fist and sized up his opponents. It was only 7am and he’d already gotten himself in trouble. So much for controlling my temper, he thought wistfully.

And then Andre threw the first punch. 

***

WHACK! “Ya con do bater thun tat, R!” Bahorel words came out garbled through his boxing mouthguard. He bounced back and forth, light on his toes. “Cone ahn, ya hit loke a gurl!” 

Panting, Grantaire gave him a small smile and moved forward. Boxing with Bahorel was always a nice distraction, even if they both ended up a little battered in the end. 

“Rip ‘em apart, R! No mercy.” Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Jehan were all sitting by the side of the ring, watching. Feuilly was shouting encouraging (and discouraging words) every now and again. 

“Hey!” Bahorel took out his mouthguard and whipped his head around to face Feuilly. “Since when are you cheering for Grantaire? I thought you were on my side, dude.” 

Feuilly waved his hand. “I’m cheering for R ever since you started  _ losing _ . He’s gotten more punches in than you have in the last ten minutes. You trash talk more than you hit.” 

Not looking up from his poetry journal, Jehan added in his quiet voice, “he also just likes to criticize your fighting skills.” 

Bahorel jumped over the ring, almost onto Feuilly, and restrained him in a headlock. “Got a problem with my fighting skills? I’ll show you fighting skills.” 

Feuilly repeatedly kicked and hit him in the side. “You dick, let go of me!

The two continued to bicker and hit each other, ignoring the looks they were getting from their friends. 

“God, it’s like a zoo around here,” Courfeyrac chuckled, leaning back in his seat. He leaned a little too far and brushed shoulders with Jehan, who was furiously scribbling something in his journal. The long-haired ginger froze up immediately, cheeks turning a bright red. And, to his dismay, Courfeyrac noticed. 

“Oops, sorry Jehan, didn’t mean to startle you there.” He gave him another one of his childish, gap-toothed grins that the all girls seemed to love. And Jehan. 

Jehan turned an even darker shade and quickly looked away, muttering something that sounded like “it’s fine.” He turned back to his writing, ripping out whatever he was working on before and starting a new page. 

Grantaire pulled out his mouthguard and climbed over the edge of the ring, joining his friends on the other side. Practice was clearly over for the day; Bahorel was focused on terrorizing Feuilly and god knows how long that would go on. And as entertaining as it was to watch them, Grantaire was itching to get home. There was a painting he had to finish. 

He waved goodbye to everyone as he gathered his belongings by the door, and--was it Feuilly  _ and  _ Jehan that mouthed “don’t leave me here alone” to Grantaire? He rolled his eyes and slung his bag over his shoulder, pushing the door open to exit the gym. 

And ran straight into a bleeding and bruised Enjolras. 


	4. A Poem Begins as a Lump in the Throat, a Sense of Wrong, a Homesickness, a Lovesickness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> consider the following:
> 
> if you're asking someone to take off their shirt to help the greater good are you still asking them to strip for you? 
> 
> things that make you go "hmmmm."
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from Robert Frost)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all know what time it is! fun fact tiiiiimmmme! i'm just gonna come out and say it---victor hugo wrote books naked. yeeeeepp. it was his zany way of dealing with writer's block---he would lock himself in his room with just a pen and paper, believing even clothes were too much of a distraction, and told his servants not to let him out until he had written something. hardcore.

Combeferre was a lot of things. A scholar, an activist, a slight coffee addict, an aspiring doctor; just to name a few. But he wasn’t an athlete. Never had been, never would be. He just wasn’t coordinated. In the past, he had tried playing soccer and baseball, but he was always the lowest performing member on the team. Combeferre regularly worked out at the gym now to stay fit, as he was a naturally skinny person, but when his friends asked him to tag along for a game of volleyball on the beach or an impromptu dance party, he was much happier watching from the sidelines. So when Courfeyrac called him early that day, demanding he come to Grantaire’s boxing gym immediately without explanation, he was a bit peeved. It was a Sunday morning, after all. 

“Courf, calm down, I can’t understand you,” he said. “Speak slower. What happened and is everyone okay?” 

“No!” he cried. “Everyone is not okay. We were all just watching Granataire and Bahorel box like they normally do, and then Enjolras just waltzed in and his head was bleeding and I think he got into a really bad fight. He’s being an ass about it. And God, he hasn’t stopped bleeding.”

Upon hearing the words “everyone is not okay,” Combeferre was already pulling on his jacket and heading out the door. “I’ll be there in ten with my first aid kit,” he said. “Send me the address of the gym. For now, apply pressure to where it's bleeding with a clean rag or t-shirt. And be careful. He could have a concussion.” Combeferre hung up and raced down the steps of his apartment building. Time for the med student to save the day. 

*** 

“What the hell, just what the hell...” Courfeyrac was pacing back and forth across the room anxiously. “Enjolras, what the fuck did you do?” 

Enjolras raised a bloody eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be applying pressure to my wound right now? I heard Combeferre on the phone.” 

Courfeyrac stomped his foot on the ground dramatically. “Even when you’re half dead you’re still an asshole. Grantaire, give me your shirt. I don’t have a spare rag or towel.” He held out his hand expectantly. 

Grantaire, who had stayed relatively quiet ever since Enjolras walked in, took a reluctant step back, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. He forced words out. “Mine is...really...sweaty...from...boxing.” 

Everyone cast a strange glance at him, including Enjolras. His stomach churned. “It’s just dirty alright, you don’t want it!” he added hurriedly. Courfeyrac glared at him. 

“Ok Jehan, give me yours. We haven’t got all day here.” Jehan let out a nervous squeak at Courfeyrac’s request, but he started to take off his sweater anyways. __

Remember, this is for Enjolras, Jehan told himself solemnly. Helping his friend was more important than maintaining his self-esteem right now. 

Suddenly, Combeferre burst through the gym doors, his first aid kit in hand, and Jehan quickly yanked his shirt back over his head. Saved by the bell. “I’ve got gauze, bandages, a clean rag, some suture I think I know how to use and antiseptics…” Combeferre stopped. “Have you all really not done anything to treat his wounds yet? You are aware Enjolras is  _ still  _ bleeding.” 

Bahorel clapped his hands together loudly. “Well, you’re here now, so...all’s well!” 

Combeferre ignored him and pushed past the others to get to his injured friend. 

“You absolute idiot,” he muttered to Enjolras as he quickly assessed the damage. There was a large cut above his left eye and blood slowly trickled out of it and down his cheek, dripping on his now matted golden curls and staining them. His knuckles were black and blue on both hands and he seemed to wince whenever he took too deep of a breath. “Let me guess, you got into an argument and wouldn’t back down when it turned physical?” 

Enjolras tapped his swollen fingers impatiently on his thigh. “Just stop the bleeding. I have a lot of work to do today and I’m already far behind.” 

Combeferre ran a hand through his short chestnut colored hair. He wasn’t going to get very far arguing with Enjolras, Grantaire proved that every Amis meeting. He was only going to rile him up more and from what could see now, Enjolras was fuming. 

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But take it easy until you’re fully healed. No more…” Combeferre made fists with his hands. “Of that.” 

Enjolras agreed with an impatient sigh, and Combeferre went to work patching him up. On the other side of the room, Jehan let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “He’s okay,” he whispered. “Enjolras will be okay.” 

Jehan hated seeing his friends hurt, physically or emotionally, and would do whatever he possibly could to make them feel better. Even if that included giving Courfeyrac his sweater. 

His face turned red again at the thought and he buried his nose in his journal. Luckily, he didn’t have to, but the embarrassment still hadn’t gone away. Why couldn’t he have asked Bahorel? Or Feuilly? Everyone knew he was a little shy about his figure. Compared to the other males in the group, he was short and skinny and didn’t have many muscles. Jehan didn’t really have the need or want to look muscular---he thought those who focused on their physique too much were vain. He was perfectly happy staying fit by doing chores, eating well and tending to his garden, moving around heavy bags of seeds, fertilizer, and soil. 

But sometimes he just felt like Courfeyrac liked to single him out on purpose. 

Jehan dismissed the thought as quickly as it came to him. Courfeyrac would  _ never _ do that. He was sweet and caring and funny and one of Jehan’s closest friends and confidants. Jehan trusted him. He could tell Courfeyrac anything. 

Jehan glanced up at the freckled, curly-haired boy casually leaning on the wall next to him. Courfeyrac winked at him and purposely knocked his shoulder against Jehan’s. “You doing alright, Prouvaire?” Jehan gave him a weak smile in return. “Of course, Courf.” 

Well, almost anything.


	5. But of all Pains, the Greatest Pain it is to Love, but Love in Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some are "lucky in love." some are not.
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from Abraham Crowley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no fact this chapter i just found out nick jonas played marius in the 25th anniversary concert and i'm upset by this discovery

“Oh shush, you look beautiful.” Marius tucked a loose strand of Cosette’s hair behind her ear. “You  _ are  _ beautiful.” 

Cosette gazed shyly back at her boyfriend. “I think you’re biased, Marius” she leaned over and gave him a small peck on the cheek anyways, and he smiled widely. 

Eponine watched the couple fawn over each other from her seat in the corner of the bar. She slowly sipped her whiskey, savouring the way it burned in the back of her throat. Drinking whiskey was like loving Marius, she thought. Intoxicating and self-destructive. Both kept her shamefully crawling back for more. 

Eponine tore her eyes away from the pair and searched for the other members of the Amis in the crowded bar. Enjolras, who still appeared pretty battered from his fight yesterday, was hunched over the counter with Combeferre, engaged in a conversation with him. 

“Nerds,” Eponine muttered to herself, and continued to scan the room. Her eyes landed on Bossuet and Joly. 

They had both been out sick for a while, but were now fully recovered and had joined the rest of the group for their night out. The two were now repeatedly ordering food from the same waitress in a vain attempt to catch her attention, and it was somehow working. She would linger by their table just a little too long, batting her eyelashes and laughing at their horrible jokes before she was called to assist another customer. The only downside to Bossuet and Joly’s ridiculous plan was that they now had a large amount of food to consume and an even larger bill to pay. Eponine snorted. She had a feeling they might be sick again very soon. 

Eponine moved on. She spotted Bahorel sitting next to Feuilly, taking shots. There was a considerable amount of glasses strewn across the tabletop. Feuilly looked sick, but the former was still going. She caught the words “weakling” and “you haven’t even thrown up yet” from Bahorel, and she chuckled. Poor Feuilly. 

Courfeyrac, per usual, was flirting with anyone and everyone he could. Right now he was chatting up a group of girls who looked like tourists. Eponine could tell by the way they were giggling profusely around Courfeyrac; they were obviously tickled to be getting attention from a handsome young French boy. That and the clunky Polaroid cameras hanging around their necks. 

It took Eponine a little longer to find Jehan. Usually he was out in the fray as well, socializing and downing martinis. It was funny to watch him get drunk. He’d start spouting out poetry and long soliloquies like nobody’s business, often crying loudly at the end of each one. 

But tonight, Jehan was sitting near the entrance of the bar by himself, and was even farther away from the rest of the group than Eponine. His poetry journal was open and he was scribbling in it once again, using his phone flashlight to see. Jehan never went anywhere without his journal, claiming inspiration could strike at any moment, but he seemed to be completely obsessed with it lately. 

Jehan suddenly looked up, sensing he was being watched, and locked eyes with Eponine. They stared at each other for a second, and Eponine almost felt like Jehan was trying to tell her something. But she wasn’t good at reading people or comforting them, and Jehan glanced down quickly, returning to his writing as if nothing happened. 

For a moment, Eponine just continued to stare at Jehan, trying to decipher what had just happened. Out of all the Amis, she didn’t understand Jehan the most, probably because of how much their personalities differed. He was carefree, happy, and emotional. And those were all things she wasn’t, but she enjoyed his company anyways, even if they weren’t the closest of friends. You just couldn’t help but smile when he was around. And although Eponine could be a little ignorant when it came to dealing with her emotions and others, she could tell Jehan was struggling with something. 

“God dammit,” she cursed. There were other people in the group  _ much _ better at this than then she was. But Jehan was her friend, he was upset, and she wasn’t going to ignore him. 

Eponine started to get up from her chair when she spotted a familiar figure stumble into the bar. She stopped, immediately forgetting about Jehan. “Are you  _ already _ drunk?” 

Grantaire let out a hollow laugh. “You sound surprised, ‘Ponine,” he said, and proceeded to order a beer from a passing waitress. 

Eponine nodded slowly. “Right.” 

She sat back down again and gestured for Grantaire to do the same. “So...how are you?” 

Grantaire fiddled with a discarded straw wrapper. “I’ve been better.” 

Eponine nodded again. She took his silence as an opportunity to steal a glance back at Marius and Cosette. They had left. She sighed. 

Grantaire gave her a questioning glance, guessing the reason behind her sigh. “You still in love with Marius? I think you might---” 

Eponine gave him her famous death glare. “Are you still in love with Enjolras? You realize all you ever do is get on his nerves, right?” 

Grantaire put a finger to her lips. “Quiet, quiet! He’s sitting over there! Don’t say that so loud!” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he heard me,” she said sarcastically, “he’s engrossed in a conversation with Combeferre about saving the whales or some junk like that.” 

Grantaire frowned at her, but didn’t respond. He took a big swig of his beer and set it down on the table with a loud clunk. “How’s it going with Marius?” he asked, trying to divert the attention away from Enjolras. But Eponine scowled at him. That was the worst question he could have possibly asked. 

“What do you think, asshole? He and Cosette are dating now.” 

The male nodded. “So it’s going good?” 

Eponine reached over and smacked his arm. He yelped. She was strong. “You really can’t hold your tongue, can you? That’s why you and Enjolras never get along.” 

Grantaire glanced down at his beer bottle, a sad smile on his face. “Perhaps. But sometimes I think I was just meant to admire him from afar, not to love him up close. He’s brought color into my world, a world that I’ve hated and cursed for so long. He’s my sun.  My Apollo.”

Grantaire took another sip of his beer and continued. 

“I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe that people are naturally good. I don’t believe in anything. But I believe in him. I believe that he could accomplish anything, and I would follow him to the ends of the Earth. But we’re following different paths in life. His righteous, mine self-destructive. I don’t think, no, I’m sure we never will, become what I desperately wish us to be, so I will have to be content with loving him in my heart. In my dreams. In my art. I will love him unrequited.” Grantaire looked up at Eponine and waved his hand in a dramatic flourish.  “ Ye who suffer because ye love, love yet more. To die of love, is to live in it. Victor Hugo.” 

They were both silent for a moment after, just listening to blaring music in the bar and the sounds of its drunk occupants. 

Then Eponine raised her empty glass of whiskey. “A toast,” she announced, “to unrequited love.” 

With a pained smile, Grantaire raised his glass to meet hers. “To unrequited love,” he repeated. 

Their toast was not finished when Jehan screamed. 


	6. Maybe I Can't Stop the Downpour, but I Will Always Join You for a Walk in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is a lot of drama, rain, and mixed feelings.
> 
> (Chapter title is an anonymous quote)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um  
> so  
> apparently victor hugo had a foot fetish...?  
> i think i just ruined the whole vibe i was trying to go for in this chapter but like wtf

“I can’t find him! He’s not here!” 

The Amis were spread out across the bar, searching for their friend. So far, they’d had no luck and it was a relatively small place. Panic was beginning to set in. 

“Jehan must have gone outside,” Enjolras said, trying to approach the matter in a calm way. “He was near the entrance, wasn’t he, Eponine? You and Grantaire were sitting pretty close to him.” 

Grantaire, a little shocked that Enjolras had noticed where he was sitting and even that he had come in merely shook his head, but Eponine was able to respond, hoping nobody noticed how uncomfortable she was doing so. “Yes. He was writing in his journal again. Nobody was near him and he wasn’t drinking, so I figured he was...” she shuffled awkwardly. “Fine. And he had his phone for safety.” 

The group nodded appreciatively at Eponine. She was an observant woman. “Everyone, turn your phones on in case he calls.” Combeferre said. “In the meantime, let’s start searching outside.” 

The Amis scrambled out of the bar and onto the dark, rainy streets of Paris. The moon and stars were concealed by ominous storm clouds and the wind howled violently, an unsettling presence in the air. Deafening booms of thunder erupted in the sky above the students, and they all shivered as the freezing cold rain continued to pour down. 

“Split up into teams of one or two. We’ll cover more ground that way.” Enjolras brushed a wet strand of long blond hair out of his eye. “And…” he paused. “Be safe.” 

He started walking off by himself and the others soon followed. Soon it was just Grantaire and Eponine left, standing by themselves in the middle of the street. “What a  _ rousing _ pep talk from our leader,” Eponine remarked.

Grantaire turned to face her, a bit annoyed. “Enjolras is worried, give him a break, ‘Ponine. Giving an inspirational speech is the last thing on his mind right now and it should be. Jehan’s missing.” 

She scoffed. “We’ll find him. He’s probably just being dramatic.” 

Grantaire clenched his teeth. “Why are you acting so fucking weird about this? I know you and Jehan aren’t super close, but god ‘Ponine, he screamed like he was being fucking murdered and now he’s _ gone _ ! And apparently, you’re too self-absorbed to give a shit!” 

Eponine wouldn’t look up. There was an awful feeling in her stomach. If anything had happened to Jehan, she felt she was to blame. “That's a bit rich coming from you,” Eponine said softly. “Neither of us seem to give a shit right now. Neither of us are searching for him.” 

“I am now,” Grantaire said, and he disappeared down the street, leaving Eponine on her own in the pouring rain. 

***

For perhaps the first time in his life, Courfeyrac was dead silent. He could tell it made Combeferre concerned, as his friend had grown used to hearing his meaningless rambles and annoying blabbing, and probably didn’t know what to think now that he wasn’t doing it. But Courfeyrac had nothing he wanted to say right now. There were a million thoughts bouncing around in his head, and usually he would blurt these thoughts out whenever they came to him, but tonight he just wanted them to go away. Instead, Courfeyrac found himself lost in them, lost in a sea of “what ifs” and “i should haves.” 

A loud thunderbolt struck across the night sky, and Courfeyrac jumped. “Dammit!” he cried. Combeferre gave him a worried look. 

“Courfeyrac, are you alright?” Courfeyrac didn’t meet his friend’s eyes. He was far from alright. 

“Yeah. Let’s....let’s find Jehan, ok?” 

“Ok,” Combeferre agreed. 

They continued to search in silence. 

***

“Ooof.” Unable to see where he was going in the dark, Grantaire ran into a lone figure walking on the street. “Jehan?” he asked hopefully. 

“Not Jehan,” the figure said, and Grantaire’s heart soared and sunk at the same time. It was Enjolras. He flashed his phone light on Grantaire. “..Grantaire?” 

“The one and only. Any luck with the search yet?” 

Enjolras shook his head. “You would have heard.”

With the small amount of light provided by the phone, Grantaire could barely make out Enjolras’s face. It was still slightly bruised from his fight, but nevertheless beautiful. Long tendrils of curly blond hair stuck to his cheeks, wet and glistening from the rain. His eyes shone with a fierce determination and Grantaire knew that he wouldn’t stop looking for Jehan until he found him, no matter the cost.

He wished that Enjolras would do the same for him. 

“Grantaire. Are you listening to me?” Oh shit. 

“Yes, of course,” Grantaire lied. “But you should tell me again anyways. Just in case you weren’t listening to yourself.” 

Enjolras aimed his phone flashlight away from Grantaire, leaving them both shrouded in darkness again. “I don’t have time for this. Jehan has been missing for almost an hour now and we’re no closer to finding him. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then do us all a favor and leave.” 

“I’m not leaving,” Grantaire snapped. “You might think I’m a worthless piece of shit who does nothing but drink and rot in my own self-pity, but I care. I care about the Amis. I care about finding Jehan. I especially care about yo--” 

He stopped himself mid-sentence, eyes wide. Luckily, Enjolras didn’t seem to notice his blunder, only his sudden change in attitude. Enjolras furrowed his brow. He didn’t know if he believed Grantaire, but he would allow extra help (even if that help came from a bumbling drunk man that reeked of cigarettes) if it meant a greater chance at finding Jehan. 

“Fine. Send a message to everyone immediately if you find him,” Enjolras said. “I’ve already searched over there, so go that way. I’ll head down this street.” He pointed out directions for Grantaire and then proceeded to quickly jog away. The farther away they were, the better. 

“Wait!” 

Enjolras skidded to a stop, almost slipping in a puddle. He felt his anger start to grow. What could Grantaire possibly want now? Was he not perfectly clear about the seriousness of this situation? “Granatire,” he started, “I can’t deal with---”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Grantaire interrupted. “I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t want to make you angry. I--I...just can’t...” His voice cracked. 

Enjolras didn’t turn around. There was a pleading tone in Grantaire’s voice, something he thought he would never hear. Grantaire was a cynic who took great care not to believe in anything. He mocked Enjolras’s beliefs every chance he had, and now he was claiming he wanted to stop? Enjolras scowled. He had to be ridiculing him once again. There was no other explanation. Enjolras whipped around to face Grantaire, a comeback already formed in his head. 

“Grantaire, I don’t believe you. Why should I? Ever since I’ve met you, all you have done is mock me. You mock everything I do. Everything I say. In fact, I think you’re still mocking me.” 

Grantaire opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. God, why was he such an idiot? Why did he think he could change his and Enjolras’s relationship, especially after his conversation with Eponine? He should have held his tongue. He should have held his tongue from the very beginning. Enjolras would always despise him, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Simultaneously, Enjolras’s and Grantaire’s phones let out a shrill “ping!” and they both fumbled to get them out. “Bahorel and Feuilly found Jehan,” Enjolras said quickly, “let’s go.” 

***

Jehan was curled up in the back of an alleyway shivering when Bahorel and Feuilly found him. They both immediately gave him their coats and pulled him into the nearest 24/7 restaurant, trying to get him warm. 

“I don’t deserve friends like you,” Jehan said, tearing up. Bahorel didn’t say anything, but he leaned over and gave the ginger a supportive hug.

“Everyone’s on their way,” Feuilly told him with a kind smile. He handed Jehan a hot cup of coffee over the table, which he gratefully accepted. “Are you feeling any better?” 

Jehan took a small sip of his drink. “I think so.” 

Just then, Enjolras burst into the restaurant, followed promptly by Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet, who was whacked in the face by the door. “Ouch!” he cried, rubbing his nose. That was going to leave a mark.

“Jehan! Are you alright?” Joly settled down next to him at the table and placed the back of his hand against his friend’s forehead. “You’re cold, but I don’t think you have a fever.” 

Jehan snuggled into his jackets. “I feel fine. But thank you, Joly.” 

Joly removed his hand. “Anything for our poet.” 

One of the restaurant workers suddenly spoke up, a clear annoyance in her voice. “If y'all aren’t gonna buy anything else, then leave. You’re tracking in mud and one of you reeks of cigarettes.” 

They all looked at Grantaire, who just shrugged. 

Enjolras turned to face the lady and shot her an icy glare. She gave him one right back, and they were locked in a staring contest. The room went dead silent. 

“Ok, chill out guys, I’ll buy something else.” Feuilly stood up and went to the counter to order another coffee. Enjolras grumbled as he turned away from the worker, irritated.

The door opened again and Combeferre and Courfeyrac rushed in. “Where is he?” Courfeyrac called. “Is he okay?” 

Jehan glanced up, startled. “Courf?” 

The two looked at each other. A weird feeling overcame Courfeyrac---it was a mixture of guilt, relief, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He walked over to Jehan and perched on the table in front of him, eyes still not leaving his. “What happened?” he said. 

Jehan looked down into his lap. His bangs fell into his eyes, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “I--I w--was robbed.” 

Everyone started talking all at once, a cluster of angry voices and shouts. “What?” Bahorel yelled, his face purple. “God, if I ever find the guy that mugged you I’m beating him to high hell.”

Courfeyrac knew the other feeling now. It was anger. Uncontrollable, untamed anger. He took in a sharp intake of breath and closed his eyes. Count to ten. Count to ten. Count to ten. Courfeyrac hardly ever felt mad. But right now he was  _ furious _ . 

Tears began to stream down Jehan’s face again. “Please don’t say that. Please.” he choked. “I would never want any of you to do that.” 

Courfeyrac couldn’t stop looking at Jehan, but Jehan refused to look back at him. With a gentle hand, Courfeyrac reached down under his chin and tilted it upwards. Jehan still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You weren’t hurt, right?” He said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. Jehan nodded. “You’re telling the truth?” Courfeyrac asked again. 

Jehan slowly met his gaze, and Courfeyrac frowned at the sight of his tear-stained cheeks. “I promise.” Jehan muttered. He started to get up from the table, and Courfeyrac dropped his hand down. He was missing something here. 

“I really just want to go home now, guys. I’m sorry this happened and I’m sorry I worried you. But I’m okay. I just need to sleep.” Jehan gave his friends what he hoped was a reassuring smile and reached down to retrieve his bag, and froze when he realized he didn’t have it anymore. “I’m okay,” he repeated, more for himself than them. 

Courfeyrac suddenly grabbed Jehan’s wrist, to the surprise of both Jehan and himself. They both looked down at it, and Courfeyrac instantly let go. “I just...that’s not right.” he said.

Jehan gave him a bewildered look.

“You shouldn’t have to walk home alone and stay there by yourself. After what happened, I mean. It’s not...safe.” Courfeyrac explained, talking a little too fast. 

“What do you mean?” Jehan whispered. His face was pink. 

Courfeyrac took a deep breath. “Let me...can I...spend the night?” 

Everyone went silent, and all eyes were on Jehan. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Ok,” he said quickly and without much thought. 

Courfeyrac nodded his head slowly. He wasn’t sure what he had just done or why he had done it...but he had nonetheless. Hopefully it was okay. That strange, restless anger he was feeling still hadn't dissipated either, and it was an unfamiliar sensation for him. Courfeyrac hated it. He felt...helpless. 

Plastering on a fake grin, he looped his arm through Jehan’s. “Well, I guess we better get going, then? You’ve had quite the night,” Courfeyrac surveyed his friend group. “In fact, I think we all have.” 

Nobody said anything, but it was evident that Courfeyrac was right by the weary looks in their eyes and hunched over postures. 

Courfeyrac brought his attention back to Jehan, who was fidgeting nervously. He gave the ginger another grin and pushed the restaurant door open for him with a dramatic bow, hoping to bring a smile to his face. It worked, but Courfeyrac knew it was forced. He quickly stood up and laced his arm through Jehan's again, waving goodbye to the remaining Amis with his other. The pair then started to make their way out onto the streets and to the latter’s apartment. 

And Courfeyrac made damn sure his arm was tightly locked around Jehan’s the entire walk home. 


	7. My Thoughts are Free to Go Anywhere, but it's Surprising How Often They Head in Your Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. you got her number but at what cost???  
> 2\. gavroche may or may not be tom sawyer (conspiracy theory)  
> 3\. and seriously people watch where you're walking
> 
> (Chapter title is an anonymous quote)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey you like fun facts??? i like fun facts!!! :) :) :) :) :)
> 
> did you know that....every professional broadway show of les mis uses a total of 392 costumes for all the characters? talk about a dress up party.... 
> 
> but hey i wanted to say this a rather short chapter because i had writers block pretty bad today but wanted to post something despite it. i'll do better next tiiiiimmme! :(

Bossuet had a throbbing headache, courtesy of Joly smacking him in the nose with a door. He had apologized profusely and Bossuet had assured him it was fine, chalking it up to his constant misfortune, but there was still no denying it hurt like hell. 

Bossuet was currently sprawled out across the couch in his and Joly’s apartment, applying ice to his nose and flipping through TV channels. He was trying his best to drown out the sound of Joly repeatedly vomiting into their toilet. It wasn’t working. 

“I think I’m dying, Bossuet.” Joly whimpered. It was a phrase Bossuet heard at least three times a day from the hypochondriac. 

“You can’t die yet, we still have more takeout to finish,” he yelled back.   
Joly threw up again in response. 

Bossuet pressed his ice pack harder down on his nose. “If it makes you feel any better I got that waitress's number before we left last night,” he said. “I forgot to tell you.” 

Joly dashed into the living room. “Musichetta? That was her name, right? No, you didn’t. You're joking.” 

Bossuet grinned. “Think I’d lie about something like that? Get out your phone and we’ll send her a message. See if she wants to meet up for lunch tomorrow.” 

Joly eagerly started to pull out his phone, but then stopped. His face turned an ugly shade of green and he gulped.“Before we do that,” he said slowly, “let me take care of one more thing.” He dashed towards the bathroom and Bossuet heard a nauseating retching sound. 

“You okay?” he called after a few moments of silence. 

A moan came from inside the bathroom. “No matter how cute that waitress Musichetta is,” he groaned, “I’m never ordering food from her again.” 

Bossuet chuckled. “Agreed.” 

***

Grantaire hadn’t gone home last night. Instead, he’d wandered around Paris until sunrise, hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth. He knew the city like the back of his hand; all the side streets, hidden alleyways, and best look-out spots. At this point, Grantaire felt that Paris was a part of him. Something he couldn’t live without. 

He took a long drag on his cigarette and sighed. Last night was awful. He had hoped that going for a walk would get his mind off of everything that happened, but it only seemed to make him perseverate on it more. His talk with Eponine. Jehan going missing. Enjolras rejecting his apology. It was all maddening.

Grantaire had allowed his feet to take him wherever they wanted, following the flow of the early morning breeze and the stones on the pavement. But when he finally pulled himself out of his daze and looked up from the ground, he didn’t expect to be standing in front of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras’s apartment. Crap. His sense of direction was either amazing or terrible. Grantaire decided it was terrible.

The apartment door abruptly opened and Combeferre stepped out. He didn’t see Grantaire at first; he was balancing a tall stack of books in his arms and his head barely peeked out over the top. “Grantaire? Is that you?” He asked, clearly surprised to see him there. “Is everything alright?”

Grantaire stomped his cigarette out on the ground, extinguishing it. “Everything’s fantastic,” he said in a deadpan voice. God, he didn’t sound believable even to himself. 

Combeferre started to say something in response, but he lost his grip on the stack of books and they came tumbling down onto the grass. “Not again,’ he said, and Grantaire reached down to help him out. 

He was handing a book back to Combeferre when he suddenly stopped, the cover catching his eye.  _ A Tale of Two Cities.  _ One of his favorite books. “You’re a fan of Charles Dickens?” 

Combeferre looked down at the book in Grantaire’s hand. “Ah. Well, I can’t really say. I haven’t read any of his work. That’s Enjolras’s book---I’m just taking it back to the library for him. But personally, I like Mark Twain.” 

Grantaire shook his head in agreement. “Tom Sawyer always reminded me of Gavroche. But I really didn’t think you were a Mark Twain kinda guy.”

The other male laughed. “I can totally see that! And to be fair, I didn’t take you for...   
Combeferre stopped. 

“Someone who likes to read?” Grantaire offered. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Grantaire handed Combeferre  _ A Tale of Two Cities  _ and got up. “I really should go. But thanks for the chat.” Combeferre lifted up his stack of books and disappeared under them once again. 

“Anytime, R. I’ll see you at the next Amis meeting.” Comberferre headed off to his car, the book tower wobbling slightly in his grasp. He really needs to get a bag for all of those, Grantaire thought, snickering quietly. 

He then started down the road again, fumbling in his pockets for his cigarette pack. “Where the hell did I put them now?” he muttered. 

Completely distracted, Grantaire didn’t see the tall blond walking directly in his path, whose attention was also diverted. He was angrily tapping out a message on his phone, his pace quickening every second.

“Combeferre! Where are you?” Enjolras shouted, not looking up. “I’ve just received a message from the ma---”

He was cut off by Grantaire ramming straight into him, knocking him off his feet and onto the ground. For a second, neither of them moved, Enjolras sprawled out on the sidewalk, confused, and Grantaire standing over him with a shocked look on his face. 

We’ve got to stop running into each other like this, Grantaire thought. Literally.


	8. At the Touch of a Lover, Everyone Becomes a Poet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roses are red  
> Violets are blue  
> A ship finally sets sail  
> And a new friendship starts too
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from Plato)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i posted another chapter woooo! i haven't forgotten about this story, i promise. but class is starting up again soon so i'm probably gonna update less often because of that so...booooo. :( but i promise promise promise i won't forget about it.
> 
> anways! fact time. Bishop Myriel is based off of the Bishop of Digne, Bienvenu de Miollis. not an incredibly interesting fact in my opinion, but i'm kinda running out of good ones...if you guys have any let me know. :) thx! hope you enjoy this chapter.

Enjolras was infuriated, and for once it wasn’t Grantaire’s fault. However, running into him certainly hadn’t helped his mood. He had dropped his phone on the sidewalk when they hit each other and broke the screen. It was already partly cracked, as Enjolras was a bit rough on it,  but now it was completely shattered. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Enjolras,” Grantaire was pale. “Your phone---” The boy bent down to pick it up. “It’s completely wrecked.” He said quietly. 

Enjolras got up, dusting the dirt off of his black jeans. He took his phone out of Grantaire’s hand and examined it. There was no way his phone was coming back from this particular fall. Right now he couldn't afford a new one; he was struggling to pay his portion of the rent this month as it was. And asking his parents was  _ not _ an option. Enjolras hadn’t spoken to them in almost five years. 

He scowled at the mere thought of his mother and father. They were  _ incredibly  _ rich people, having more money to know what to do with. They spent money recklessly and on things they never planned on using. Last time he counted, which he didn’t like to often, they had two yachts, three mansions, four airplanes, and a countless number of cars. Enjolras had always resented them for their extravagance and egocentric ways. He decided early on that he wouldn’t ride off their wealth, and instead work hard to make a life for himself. 

“Enjolras? You okay?” Grantaire asked him meekly. 

Enjolras ignored his question and shoved his damaged phone back into his pocket hastily. “Have you seen ‘Ferre? There’s something important I need to discuss with him.” 

Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck. “He just left in the Volvo, so…” 

The blond cursed. 

“You okay?” Grantaire repeated, a little slower and louder this time. He felt like an asshole for making Enjolras drop his phone when it was clear he was already having a bad day. At this point, Grantaire was an expert at making things harder for the leader, whether he purposely did so or not. His stomach twisted at the thought.

Enjolras glared at Grantaire. “Grantaire, I am currently swamped with work from my university classes and haven’t had enough time to catch up on any of it yet, and I need to keep up my 3.9 GPA. Combeferre covered my portion of the rent last month because I am struggling to pay it and desperately need to find a job. And I have been preparing for our rally next month day and night and it's driving me insane. Then I got this email this morning...god...so yes, Grantaire, I’m doing just fine.” Enjolras rubbed his temples, immediately regretting his outburst. He’d been so irritable because of all the stress lately. And more impulsive. The last thing he had wanted to do was blab all his troubles to someone. Especially  _ Grantaire. _ “You know what? I shouldn’t have told you that. They’re my problems and I’ll deal with them. Forget I said anything.” He started to walk past Grantaire and towards the entrance of his apartment, eager to get away. 

Grantaire just stared at him, shell-shocked. He’d never heard Enjolras open up like that before, even if it was an accident. He was stoic as hell and always presented himself in an unperturbed fashion. It had never occurred to Grantaire that he could be struggling...just like him. He mentally kicked himself for not considering it before. 

“Enjolras!” He shouted and jogged after the blond. “You can’t just say something like that and walk away.” 

Enjolras spun around. He was wearing his usual stoic expression again, and it made Grantaire’s stomach twist even more. “I have things I need to take care of,” he said, “and I don’t have time to argue, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire stopped and looked down at his feet. “I...I told you Enjolras, I don’t want to argue anymore. Please take me seriously.” 

He looked up again. Enjolras was still staring at him, but his unreadable face had changed to a confused expression. It was something else Grantaire had never seen from Enjolras before, as he was self-assured and knew very clearly what he stood for and what he didn’t. It would have made Grantaire smile under different circumstances. He looked a bit like a deer caught in headlights. It was kinda cute. 

After a moment, Enjolras brushed aside some of his hair and sighed. “Grantaire, I guess I haven’t been entirely fair with you about this. I’ve been a jerk too. If you want to start over, then...I’m willing.” 

Grantaire felt his heart begin to race. “Really?” 

With a nod, Enjolras gave him a tired smile and confirmed it, and Grantaire’s pulse went through the roof. He’d never...Enjolras had  _ never _ smiled at Grantaire before. It was always dirty looks and scowls. He had been content with those, he was just happy to have Enjolras’s attention, but now all he wanted was to have the golden-haired boy smile at him again. His smile was absolutely radiant, even if it was a tired one. Grantaire felt his cheeks warm. All he could do was give Enjolras an awkward thumbs up in return. 

“I do have some stuff I need to start working on, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his stoic look already in place again. “And ‘Ferre and I need to talk about this email I received when he returns. And Courf, when he returns from Jehan’s.” 

Grantaire chuckled. “You mean if, Enjolras.” 

“If?” 

“You haven’t noticed how much Jehan admires him? He always gets flustered whenever Courfeyrac’s around. The little poet’s got it bad.” Grantaire paused. “And, if I’m not wrong, I think Courf might too.” 

Enjolras frowned. “Really? Hm. I’m not good at noticing when someone is attracted to another person--”

Grantaire started to cough, and Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, sorry, just remembered something. I should probably go. I’ll see you at the Musain tonight?” Grantaire started to walk back to the sidewalk and away from Enjolras as he talked. 

Enjolras gave him a curt nod, a little puzzled by his sudden departure, but said nothing. He disappeared into his apartment and shut the door. 

Grantaire waited until he had walked far enough away from the apartment to let out a loud groan. It was so frustrating it was kind of funny. “Not good at noticing when someone is attracted to another person,” he muttered to himself, almost laughing, almost on the verge of tears. “that’s the understatement of the century.”

***

As soon as Courfeyrac got to Jehan’s apartment and settled in on his couch, he was out cold. The night had taken a much bigger toll on him than he had thought, and he was exhausted. Jehan had gone to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea and when he came back five minutes later Courfeyrac had passed out. He had smiled to himself, set down the mug, and draped a warm blanket over his friend. He really didn’t think he deserved a friend as good as Courfeyrac. 

Despite his best efforts, Jehan was unable to fall asleep. There were too many thoughts racing around in his head, and he couldn’t seem to silence them. Courfeyrac snoring loudly in the next room wasn’t helping much, either. So he resorted to his poetry. 

Poetry was Jehan’s escape from the world. In real life, he was often criticized by people for looking too feminine and for having an awful fashion sense. He was awkward and shy, and could never think of the right things to say. But when it came to writing, words came to him like magic. Jehan could express himself with his poetry in a way he couldn’t with anything or anyone else. 

Jehan didn’t know how long he had been writing, but when Courfeyrac stumbled into his bedroom at 11:00 am he realized he may have gotten a little lost in his work. 

“Hey, Prouvaire! You feeling better?” Courfeyrac slung his arms around Jehan’s shoulders and he jumped in his seat. 

“C-C-Courf, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you come in,” he sputtered. 

Courfeyrac laughed. “It’s fine. So tell me, what are you working on?” He leaned over to get a closer look at Jehan’s papers. 

Jehan scrambled to cover them up. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing.” He was a little shy when it came to sharing his work sometimes. 

“It doesn’t look like nothing! Lemme see!” 

“No!” 

“Oh come on, we all know you’re an incredible poet! What are you writing that’s so secret?” Courfeyrac removed his arms from Jehan’s shoulders and grabbed the papers off his desk. Jehan leaped from his seat and reached up to grab them, but Courfeyrac held them high above his head, out of the ginger’s reach. 

Jehan stomped his foot. “Courfeyrac! You jerk!”

Courfeyrac smiled mischievously. “I’ll give them back if you let me read them.” 

“That’s a terrible deal.”

“Well, it’s the only option you’ve got.”

Jehan folded his arms across his chest and did his best to make an angry face. He wasn’t very good at it, because Courfeyrac laughed. “No offense, but you look like you’re constipated.” 

Keep the poker face, keep the poker face, Jehan thought to himself. Don’t give in. But Courfeyrac shot him a goofy look, his eyes wide and cheeks puffed, and Jehan giggled. “You're a dork, Courf.” 

The curly-haired boy’s grin grew. “Only when I’m with you, Jehan.” 

Jehan blushed at Courfeyrac’s words. “Only when you’re with me?” he asked quietly. “What does that mean?” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Courfeyrac bit his bottom lip anxiously and looked away. He set down the papers on the nightstand beside him, and Jehan instinctively started to go over to retrieve them. He was stopped by Courfeyrac's hand brushing against his forearm, shaking ever so slightly. 

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac breathed, “it means that I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” He leaned down and softly kissed Jehan, whose pulse had skyrocketed. Courfeyrac was a little too tall and hadn't bend down at the right angle for him, so their noses were smashing together. Jehan stood there, frozen. He didn't know what to do with his mouth. Or his hands, which he had shoved into his pockets. Nervously, he reached up and wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac in an awkward embrace and tried his best to relax. Hugging him seemed to help, and Jehan leaned into the kiss, grinning like an idiot.  Courfeyrac suddenly broke away, realizing he had been a little forward. “Was that...okay?” he whispered. He brushed Jehan’s bangs out of his eyes, trying to determine the boy’s response from his expression.

Jehan shyly met Courfeyrac’s gaze and smiled back. “More than okay.” 

Courfeyrac lit up. “Jehan, I’m so...god, you’re just amazing.” With one swift motion, he picked Jehan up off his feet and carried him into the living room, the latter protesting the whole way. 

“Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! What are you doing?” Jehan cried. 

“I’m carrying you, Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac said, matter-of-factly, “I don’t know why, it seemed like a good idea at the time. You were being pretty sweet.” 

Jehan rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “If you put me down then I’ll make some pancakes,” he said. 

Courfeyrac considered it. “Tempting offer. Hmmm…” He pursed his lips. “Alright, I’m down for some pancakes. But first, I have to spin you.” 

Before Jehan could respond, Courfeyrac was twirling them in circles around the room. The poet squealed and giggled, the sound of his laughter soft and sweet. His long ginger hair was flying around in the air behind him as they spun, occasionally getting in Courfeyrac’s face, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to care about anything except the boy in his arms right now, looking up at him with shining emerald green eyes and a loving smile. 


	9. To the Bottle I Go, To Heal My Heart and Drown My Woe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *start catchy theme music that sounds a little too familiar to the snazzy trumpet intro in red and black* 
> 
> HEEELLLLOOOOO EVERYONE AND WELCOME BACK TO ANOTHER EPISODE OF PARIS IS A PLACE IN WHICH WE CAN FORGET OURSELVES!!! When we last left our revolutionary heroes, two of them were making plans to meet at the Musain and two others were quite possibly making out..! *cue audience oohhhing* Yes, that's right folks! Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire finally got together. *audience claps like crazy* But hold on to your hats everyone, it's not nearly the end of the story yet.....
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote by J.R.R. Tolkien)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya! i think i'm finally getting the hang of what to write in here (and i'm totally not saying that because i can't find anymore good facts)! just stuff about how my story is going and whatnot, right? eh...
> 
> (oh, btw the quote Courf uses later on in the chapter is by Hermann Hesse)

Enjolras had arrived at the Musain an hour before the Amis meeting to talk with Combeferre. And Courfeyrac, who didn’t show for some reason. Nevertheless, the two were able to brainstorm some interesting ideas to help promote their rally more. Enjolras showed Combeferre the email he had received, and his friend shook his head in disgust. “That can’t be legal,” he said. “He’s trying to discourage you from protesting. You have all the right to, as long as it doesn’t get violent.” 

Enjolras nodded, a determined look on his face. “I won’t back down, Combeferre. I know what I stand for. No haughty politician is going to stop this rally---not if I have a say in it.” 

Combeferre took a deep breath. “Just promise me you won’t get yourself in trouble, okay?” 

The blond sighed. “I’ll do my best.” 

That answer wasn’t particularly satisfying to Combeferre, but before he could say anything else Feuilly strolled into the cafe. He waved at them and started making his way over. 

“I just got off work,” he groaned. “Today was a fucking nightmare. I’d quit working at the store in a minute if I didn’t actually need to pay rent.” 

Enjolras bit his lip. He still needed to find a job himself. Paying back Combeferre for covering his portion of the rent last month was something he really wanted to take care of as soon as he could. “Feuilly, are they hiring at your work by any chance?” 

Feuilly laughed. “Dude, my job sucks. I just took it because I couldn’t find anything else. The pay isn’t too hot and you have to deal with cranky customers all the time. I think you should look elsewhere.” 

“I don’t care how crappy it is, I just need to earn money,” Enjolras snapped. “If there’s an opening would you tell me?” 

Rolling his eyes, Feuilly promised he would. “I’ll help you look for some more jobs later tonight,” Combeferre said. “But if you’re feeling stressed about paying me back, you don’t need to be. I know you have a lot on your plate right now.” 

Enjolras started to protest but was interrupted by more of the Amis filing into the back room of the cafe. He checked his watch. It was about time to start the meeting. 

He and Combeferre made their way to the front of the room as their friends settled into their seats, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Enjolras stared expectantly at the door, a little annoyed. Courfeyrac still hadn’t arrived yet. He wasn’t the most punctual member of their group, but he never was the last to show up. That was Marius, who was terrible at keeping track of the time. But for once, Marius was here and Courfeyrac was not. Enjolras surveyed the room one more time. Jehan wasn’t either. Was Grantaire right about them being attracted to each other? It seemed like too much of a coincidence for them to both be gone right now. 

“Enjolras, are you ready to start?” Combeferre whispered in his ear. “You zoned out there for a moment.” 

Enjolras folded his arms. “Do you know where Courfeyrac and Jehan are? I was hoping everyone would be here tonight. We need to talk about the email and how the plans have---” 

Combeferre let out an unexpected laugh.“Enj, you didn’t see the post? Wait, you don’t have social media. Here.” He pulled out his phone and began scrolling. “There. Courf posted this picture this afternoon.” He handed it to Enjolras. 

The leader stared at it, somewhat shell-shocked. In the photo, Courfeyrac was holding Jehan up in his arms and they both had wide, cheery smiles on their faces. The caption underneath read “ If I know what love is, it is because of you. I don’t know what I would do without you, @prouvairethepoet.” 

Enjolras handed Combeferre his phone back, an unusual, uneasy feeling in his stomach. “So they’re dating?” He asked. 

Combeferre smiled. “As of this afternoon, yes. I’m relieved, honestly. I was beginning to think they would never get together. Now there’s just you and---”

He stopped himself before he said anything else. “We should start the meeting,” he muttered. “We’ve already eaten up about ten minutes of our time.” 

Enjolras agreed, pushing his curiosity about what Combeferre was going to say aside. There were more significant things to talk about. Clearing his throat, Enjolras directed the attention of the group to him and his best friend, and they quieted down. 

“I have some important news for all of you, and I think we might have to reevaluate our plan for the rally because of it. So, to not beat around the bush...” he looked over at Combeferre, and his friend nodded at him. “The mayor sent an email to my school address, which bothers me that he was able to acquire it in the first place, but the content of the letter was more concerning. He was trying to dissuade us from holding our protest, which is…’

“Taking away our rights as citizens of Paris!” Bahorel was out of his seat in a flash, and his face was red. “What the hell?” 

Everyone immediately started talking at once, anger and frustration beginning to rise within the group. Grantaire and Eponine were the only silent ones, hidden in the corner. They hadn’t discussed their fight but were getting along as if nothing had happened. That was how it usually went between them; they either talked too much with each other or too little. 

Grantaire gently nudged Eponine, but she didn’t look up from her phone. He poked her harder this time, and she grunted. “Fuck off, Grantaire.”

He snorted. “What’s so interesting on there, anyways? Are you stalking Marius’s social media again?” 

Eponine slapped his knee, and he winced.“Get out your phone and stop bothering me, asshole.” 

He shook his head. “I’m trying to be a more active listener in these meetings now. I think Enjolras…” he paused. It was gonna sound stupid, but most of the things that came out of his mouth were anyways. “I think I might have a real chance at becoming his friend.” 

Eponine began to snicker, but when she saw the expression on Grantaire’s face she stopped. “You’re serious? When did that change?” she tried her best not to sound nosy.

Grantaire smiled sheepishly. “I was walking by his apartment---” 

“Because you’re a stalker.” 

“No, I’m not, you hypocrite. And shut up so I can finish. So I was walking by, and as I was about to leave after having a brief conversation with ‘Ferre, I ran into Enjolras. Like, literally ran into him. He dropped his phone and it broke but I don’t actually think he was mad at me for it---”

“Real smooth, Grantaire.”

“I said shut up!” He said it much louder than he intended, and all the Amis turned to look his way. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras frowned at him and he felt his heart drop to his stomach. He probably thought Grantaire was saying that to him. 

“Uh, I was just telling Eponine to shut up, because we were talking about how…” he trailed off. That wasn’t a good excuse. “Nevermind. Sorry to interrupt.” 

Enjolras was still frowning, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned around and addressed the group again. “As ‘Ferre and I were saying, the mayor found out about the rally from our social media posts. We’ve drawn in a lot of attention that way, both positive and negative. I wanted to hear your opinions on whether or not we should keep using it or if we should consider an alternative.” 

Cosette, who occasionally attended Amis meetings with Marius and was considered an honorary member, spoke up first. “I think we should play it safe and stop posting updates, Enjolras. It’s not worth the risk. If we attract some bad people to the rally and they start causing problems, we could really be in trouble.” 

“I agree with Cosette,” Combeferre said. “With big protests like this, there’s bound to be some type of issue anyways. It’s inevitable. The smartest thing to do now is to quit updating.”

There came murmurs of agreement from the group, and Enjolras was about to confirm for sure if everyone wanted to stop posting when Bahorel jumped up from his seat again. He was acting especially impulsive tonight, even for him. “Fuck that! We shouldn’t have to back down like this just because the mayor is being an asshole. Social media has worked well for us so far, so why should we stop it now?” 

“Because it could bring like terrorists or something to our protest and then they’d kill us and we’d all die horrible deaths!” Joly shouted in retaliation, over-exaggerating his points. His face was also red, and he was taking hurried, deep breaths to try to calm himself down. He placed a hand over his heart and shuddered. “Oh my god, I’m so worked up and my heart is pounding  _ so  _ fast...Am I having a heart attack? Bossuet, I think I’m going to die  _ right now _ .” 

Bossuet absent-mindedly patted Joly on the shoulder. “Don’t die. We have a date with Musichetta soon.” 

Joly took another deep breath. “Right, right. I’m not dying. Not yet.” 

Combeferre awkwardly coughed and brought everyone’s attention back to the front of the room. “Anyways...I’m thinking we do a show of hands, who’s for keeping up social media, who’s not. Majority rules. So, all in favor of quitting social media, raise your hand.” 

Exactly five hands shot into the air, and Combeferre groaned. There were currently ten of them in the room, so it was going to be equal either way. “Enjolras?” he asked, at a complete loss. 

Enjolras drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the side of his leg. There wasn’t a perfect solution here. His friends looked to him to be their leader, but he didn’t always know the best way to do that or what choices to make. He was torn.

“I know we all have differing opinions on this,” he started slowly, “so I think everyone should decide for themselves how to handle it. But consider the pros and cons of both options before you make a rash decision.” He glanced down at his watch. “We’ve gone about fifteen minutes over time. Sorry to anyone that has an early class tomorrow, but thank you all for staying. We can discuss some of the new changes in our plan for the rally next week.” 

“Pfffftttt, early morning class, come on Enj. You know I’m going to stay up and watch South Park all night anyways,” Feuilly said. His comment earned him a few laughs from the group. 

The door suddenly flew open, and Courfeyrac and Jehan ran in, panting. “Guys, I’m so sorry, the time got away from us and we forgot all about---” 

Courfeyrac was interrupted by Bahorel engulfing him and Jehan in a bone-crushing hug. “You idiots,” he said. “God, do you know how long I’ve waited for you two to get together? It’s been torture. Like, seriously. I was thinking about abandoning you both on a deserted island or something until you professed your undying love for one another.” In the background, Feuilly let out a teasing wolf-whistle, and Enjolras silently hoped nobody noticed him involuntarily cringe when he did so. 

Jehan’s face turned a bright shade of pink. “You wanted me and Courfeyrac to date? For how long?”

Bahorel let go of his two friends. “Ever since Courfeyrac started flirting with you and you started writing poems about him.” 

“Courfeyrac flirted with me? And wait, how do you know that I wr---I mean, no, I haven’t written poems about Courfeyrac!”

Everyone looked at him with disbelief, and he cracked under the pressure immediately. 

“Well, maybe a few. I’ve written a few.” Jehan buried his head in his hands. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough I can disappear, he thought miserably. 

Bahorel chuckled. “For the record, I didn’t know you wrote poems about Courf. Just seemed like something you would do, and it was a lucky guess. 

Jehan groaned from underneath his hands. Was he really _ that  _ obvious?

Courfeyrac bent down and placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head. “Will you read them to me someday?” he whispered in the poet’s ear. Jehan timidly peeked out from behind his hands and gazed up at Courfeyrac, who was blushing a little himself.

He wrapped his arms around the freckled boy. “I’ll...think about it.” 

Courfeyrac smiled at him, his eyes twinkling. 

“God, they’re worse than Marius and Cosette,” Eponine complained to Grantaire. “I didn’t even think that was possible.” 

Grantaire didn’t say anything. He was looking around the room anxiously, a concerned expression on his face. Despite the meeting running late and many of the Amis having morning classes, everyone was still gathered in the backroom, chatting with each other and congratulating Courfeyrac and Jehan on their new relationship. Everyone except...

“Hey. Hey, hey! Earth to Grantaire!” Eponine snapped her fingers in front of his face. “What the hell’s wrong with you now?” 

Grantaire stood up suddenly. “I need to go,” he said and pushed past an aggrieved Eponine.

“I was talking to you, you asshole!” she called after Grantaire, but didn’t make an effort to get up and follow him. She rolled her eyes. “He’s hopeless,” she murmured and returned her attention to her phone.

Grantaire hurried out of the Cafe Musain and out onto the sidewalk. Something just didn’t feel right. Enjolras was always the last one to leave the Musain after the Amis meetings, no matter how late they ran. But Grantaire had scanned the entire room looking for him, and he wasn’t there, and neither was his knapsack.

Grantaire cursed and kicked a rock on the ground. He was overreacting. Enjolras must have just gone home. He’d been stressed lately, and probably wanted some time to himself before Courfeyrac and Combeferre got back. What the hell was he thinking? That he’d find Enjolras sobbing on some street curb and he’d be able to console him? God, he was stupid. 

The raven-haired boy trudged back to his own apartment, too embarrassed to go back into the Musain after dashing out so abruptly. His thoughts were spiraling and it was overwhelming. Tonight was definitely a drown-himself-in-crappy-wine-until-he-passed-out kinda night. There had been a lot of those nights lately. 

As soon as Grantaire got home, he instantly threw on some pajamas he found lying on his floor (he wasn't sure if they were clean or not, but didn’t really care either way) and tossed his other clothes on the ground in their place. He didn’t bother to turn on any lights. 

Hastily, Grantaier grabbed some wine out of the kitchen and flopped himself down on his beaten-up couch. He took a big swig out of the bottle, grimacing. It tasted like shit, but at this point, he just needed something to numb his emotions. 

He was just about to take another sip when he heard knocking on his door. “I’m getting completely wasted right now so whoever it is, fuck off,” Grantaire shouted. 

The knocking continued, now even louder than before. Grantaire slammed his bottle down on the coffee table. Right now he just didn’t have the patience to deal with other people. 

Grantaire flung the door open, his face almost purple with anger. “Did you hear me, you shitty asshole? I’m bu….” he stopped immediately. 

  
  


Oh, fuck  _ no.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Another episode finished...but there's still more questions to answer! Is Combeferre a total Enjoltaire shipper??? Will Joly throw up on his date with Bossuet and Musichetta??? When is Eponine going to stop internet-stalking Marius and Cosette (probably never tbh)??? 
> 
> ......but ok I know I have some actual questions to answer and i'm getting to them okaayy. i have a plaaaan. i think...:P
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT TIME TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS WITH OUR FAVORITE REVOLUTIONARIES! SEE YOU THEN!
> 
> *exit with snazzy trumpet music*


	10. Ignorance is a Lot Like Alcohol; the More You Have of It, the Less You are Able to See Its Effect On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dear grantaire,
> 
> i'm sorry for putting you in this...situation  
> NOT
> 
> sincerely,   
> im_les_miserable
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote by Jay M. Bylsma)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this is a pretty short chapter but i kinda wanted to leave it as is...i like writing cliff hangers, ok??? ;) 
> 
> but i hope you guys like it i tried to do some more enjoltaire cuz i've focused a lot on jehan and courf lately 
> 
> anywayyyysss have a great day! :p

“This...seems like a bad time.” 

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder, back into the apartment. It was a mess. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, unwashed dishes were piled up in the sink, and his trash can had started to overflow. The half-empty bottle of wine he had been chugging just seconds ago sat in clear view of his visitor on the coffee table, and Grantaire shifted his body awkwardly to block it. Grantaire knew he must look a disaster himself, dressed in ratty old pajamas with big bags under his eyes and his unkempt black hair sticking out every which way. He ran  a hand through his hair in a hasty attempt to comb it, but only made it stand up more.

I’m fucking pathetic, he thought. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras’s voice brought him back to reality. Where he really didn’t want to be right now. 

“Yeah?” Grantaire asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant. He wished Enjolras gave him some kind of ‘heads-up’ that he was coming over so that he could deep-clean his entire apartment, brush his hair, put on more decent clothing and  _ not _ drink half a bottle of wine. 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras said. He had his knapsack slung over his shoulder and was trying to peer past Grantaire into his apartment. Grantaire closed the door a little bit more. 

“I could ask you the same question,” he shot back. “When’s the last time you came to my apartment? Oh right,  _ never _ . I didn’t think you even knew where I lived. And not to mention it’s getting pretty late, and I have stuff to do.” He stopped and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He didn’t mean to come across so bitter. 

However, Enjolras seemed unphased. “I’ll go,” he said curtly. “Tonight doesn’t seem like a good night.” He started to leave. 

He had managed to walk about three feet away from the apartment when Grantaire was calling after him. “No, no, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have said that! I’m not doing anything important. Tonight’s a good night to...to...what? Um, why exactly are you here?” 

Enjolras turned around. “I was hoping we could talk. I need your advice on something.”

Grantaire held back a laugh. Advice? God, he was the  _ last _ person anyone should get advice from. His life was basically in shambles. He drank to avoid facing his problems, was behind in school, struggled with depression, and had been in love with the same person for years. Who was currently standing in front of him, asking for his help. Since when was  _ that _ a thing?

With a deep breath, Grantaire replied. “That’s not the best idea, but alright. Just,” he looked away, embarrassed, “give me a minute to clean up my apartment.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and pushed past Grantaire, annoyed. “Please, I live with Courfeyrac. He’s a complete---”

He froze when he saw the absolute mess of an apartment in front of him. Enjolras glanced down at his feet, where he had stepped in a pile of Grantaire’s dirty clothes. “Slob,” he finished. Grantaire hid his face in his hands, mortified. 

“Whatever,” Enjolras finally murmured and went to sit down on the couch. Grantaire knew there was no way he couldn’t have noticed the wine sitting on the coffee table, but he didn’t comment on it. Strange. Usually, Enjolras took any opportunity he had to rebuke Grantaire’s unhealthy drinking habits. 

Gulping, Grantaire closed the front door and shuffled back into the main room of the apartment, pausing near the kitchen. “You want anything to drink?” he said. “Water? Or coffee?”  Or alcohol, I’ve got plenty of that, he thought but didn’t dare say aloud. 

Enjolras was sorting through some papers in his knapsack. “Water, please,” he said absent-mindedly, not taking his attention off of his bag. Grantaire just nodded and disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve two glasses. He took his time filling up the cups, trying to stall their conversation as long as possible. He still didn’t understand why Enjolras had come to talk to him out of all people. Combeferre gave great advice, and he actually had his shit together. And Courfeyrac was more of a mess, but he still had his life under control. Jehan liked to read up on Hinduism and Buddhism and always had wonderful insights to give from the religions, as well as the poetry he read. Really  _ anyone _ in the group besides Grantaire could give better advice.

He joined Enjolras in the living room, who was sitting with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. The man resembled a statue, his limbs stiff and his expression impassive. Grantaire hurriedly handed him his water and found a seat across the room, as far away from the blond as possible. Enjolras completely disregarded the gesture, placing the drink on the coffee table next to the wine. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Grantaire began, “so...what did you need to talk about?” 

Enjolras chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of the right words to say. “I told you I’m not great at  noticing when somebody is attracted to someone else,” he said. Grantaire took a slow sip of his drink and shrugged in agreement, trying to figure out where the conversation was going. “And I’m probably presuming too much here, ” Enjolras scrunched up his nose, thinking. “Grantaire, how do you know if someone is in love with you?”

Grantaire spit out his drink. 


	11. Somewhere Between Love and Hate Lies Confusion, Misunderstanding, and Desperate Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> poptarts.  
> i mean, there's other stuff, but poptarts.
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote by Shannon L. Alder)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my classes officially start tomorrow boohoo :(  
> i have to actually write things besides this story and wake up EARLY...!!!  
> ...like, no thank youuuu...
> 
> but eh here's a chapter I wrote this last night/this morning. i'm still gonna update this story but probably less frequently because of, ya know, classsss. i've like been doing nothing but working on this because i have no life so now that i actaully have other stuff i need to do its like eeeehhh
> 
> but enough of me complaining
> 
> enjoy some poptarts

BAM! The front door to Bahorel and Feuilly’s apartment slammed open, and Bahorel stood in the doorway, trembling with fury. “You bastard!” He shouted. 

Feuilly didn’t bother to look up. He was sitting on the living room floor, calmly folding origami cranes and watching old  _ South Park  _ reruns. A half-empty glass of milk sat on the ground beside him. 

Fuming, Bahorel stomped over to Feuilly and grabbed the crane he was folding out of his hands, tearing it to pieces. His face was beetroot red. “You bastard!” he repeated, “you knew the frosted strawberry ones were mine!” 

The sandy blond ignored him and reached for another piece of origami paper, which Bahorel ripped out of his hands once again. Feuilly made a face in irritation. “One,” he said, holding up a finger, “you’re blocking the TV, two, I didn’t eat all of them, you ate some, and three, calm the hell down.” 

Bahorel folded his arms across his chest. “I am not calming the hell down! Those were  _ my  _ Poptarts and I paid good money for them---”

“Dude, you mean like a dollar fifty?” Feuilly smirked. Got ‘em there. 

“Fuck you and this conversation!” Bahorel stormed off into the kitchen and began rummaging around in the pantry. He threw boxes of food and cans aside, intent on finding only one thing. He cursed in frustration. 

On the other side of the room, Feuilly snorted, and returned his attention to his craft, this time making a paper swan. He hummed thoughtfully while he worked, gently creasing the corners of the oriental paper and folding it back. Cranes and swans were both effortless pieces for him to make, hence the large bunch of the origami birds on the carpet next to him. They just flew out of him. (No pun intended. Well, maybe). Feuilly had nimble, delicate fingers when it came to paper-folding and an unshakable patience. A patience that had been acquired over many years of living in different foster homes with families of all types..not all of them being very pleasant.

Bouncing around from family to family his whole childhood was certainly not the way Feuilly wished he had grown up. He never had anyone he considered a parental figure, someone he considered a role model or could talk to, but then again nobody had ever really considered him their child. It didn’t bother Feuilly anymore; it did in the beginning when he was much younger and naive, but as he grew older, he realized that perhaps he was just meant to be alone. 

As time went on and he continued to travel between foster homes, Feuilly worked less on trying to develop bonds with families and more on discovering himself. He had always had trouble in school because moving to different homes often meant moving to different schools and then sometimes back again. So in fourth grade, Feuilly decided that he would start to teach himself things he was struggling to learn. He improved his reading and writing skills greatly and fell in love with learning about geography and the other countries of the world, especially Poland. He promised himself he would travel there someday. 

Feuilly also busied himself with papercrafting, becoming a master at creating beautiful, painted fans and origami, which he still did today. He usually ended up giving his creations to the Amis or throwing them away, as he didn’t find any real value in them, but was glad his friends did. 

Feuilly suddenly felt his eyes begin to water. Fuck, was he  _ crying _ ? He never cried. His past was a load of bullshit, he knew, but he was an adult now and had moved on from it. There was so much to be thankful for now; he had made friends, a surrogate family, which he never thought he would have. He had a job, a sucky one at that, but he had it. And he was going to college, something he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to do. Feuilly swiftly brushed away his tears and smiled instead. In the end, his hard work had paid off. 

“Feuilly, we only have the frosted brown sugar cinnamon ones left!” Bahorel yelled. “Those ones suck.” 

Rolling his eyes, Feuilly set down his finished paper swan and joined Bahorel in the kitchen. It was a mess. Boxes and cans were scattered all across the floor in Bahorel’s frenzied attempt to find more Poptarts. The guy was addicted. “ _ Actually, _ I bought some on my way back from work today. Saw ‘em on the shelf in the sale section. They might be expired, I dunno, but the flavor is worth it..” He held up a box of S’mores Poptarts and Bahorel lit up. 

“No, you didn’t dude! I take back everything I said. You’re fucking awesome.” He grabbed the box out of Feuilly’s hand and began to open it. 

“Hey, not so fast, you gotta pay for those pastries,” Feuilly reached his hand out expectantly. 

Bahorel shot him a nasty look. “Ok, I don’t take it back, you’re still a bastard,” he sighed and looked down longingly at the tarts. “How much?” 

Feuilly thought about it. He didn’t remember the price, so maybe he could weasel a little bit more out of Bahorel. “Three bucks,” he said. 

“No way! You said they were on the sale rack. For all I know they’re expired and gonna give me food poisoning or some shit.”

“They’re  _ S’mores _ flavored, Bahorel. It’s worth it. Pay up.”

Bahorel glared at him, but there was a smile behind it. “You absolute bastard,” he muttered, but pulled a crumpled five out of his pocket. “Keep the change. These better be worth it, Scrooge. ” 

Feuilly stuffed the bill into his wallet with a smirk. “Bah humbug!”

***

The room fell silent. Grantaire stared at Enjolras, unable to take his eyes off of the man. Enjolras stared back intensely, his bright cerulean eyes narrowed and flush pink lips curved downward. He seemed to be studying Grantaire, and naturally, Grantaire was freaking out. 

“I’m-sorry-that’s-just-a-really-weird-question-especially-coming-from-you-and-why-are-you-asking-me-this,” Grantaire babbled. He knew his face was ridiculously red. There was no hiding it. 

Enjolras crossed his arms, frustrated. “Why is it a weird question? We were talking about this just the other day, how I struggle to notice when somebody is in...love.” Enjolras tugged on a strand on his hair, thinking. “But Combeferre thinks someone is fond of me, which I personally find hard to believe. To be fair, I’m not always the most likable person.” 

Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek. Well, one thing was for sure; next time he saw Combeferre he was going to punch him in his stupid, nerdy face. But right now he had to deal with something else. He had to deal with the love of his life, the most strikingly beautiful, intensely determined, charming but ridiculously oblivious man he had ever met. God, what hell was he supposed to do?

“I’m still confused why you’re asking me this,” Grantaire said as calmly as he could. “Trust me, I’m terrible when it comes to romance.” 

The golden-haired male unfolded his arms. “You predicted that Courfeyrac and Jehan were going to date, so I figured you would have some insight on who might be attracted to me.” 

Grantaire couldn’t help it this time; he let out a loud, harsh laugh, not noticing the way Enjolras’s face fell for a fraction of a second when he did. “ _ Everyone  _ knew they were going to get together at some point. It was just a matter of time, Enjolras.” 

“I didn’t know they were,” he murmured quietly, out of earshot of Grantaire. He leaned over to grab his glass of water off the coffee table and scowled, finally deciding to address the wine on the table. “You’re wrecking yourself, Grantaire. Getting drunk is no way to deal with the hardships of life.” 

Grantaire sneered at him. “Trying to control my life again, Apollo? I thought you already came to the conclusion that I’m incapable of living one.” 

Enjolras clenched his teeth. “I was merely suggesting you consider dealing with your problems in a way that doesn't involve alcohol.” 

The dark-haired boy scoffed and stood up, snatching the wine bottle off of the table. “I’ll deal with my problems how I see fit. It’s none of your fucking business.”

Enjolras stood up as well, his face bright purple. “I was trying to help you, Grantaire. I have no desire to make your life harder; we both have our own problems.” 

“Hell, what do  _ you  _ know about problems? You’re a pampered rich boy who can get anything or anyone he wants. You’re ethereally beautiful and incredibly sma---”

Grantaire was interrupted by Enjolras punching him in the face. He stumbled backward. Enjolras had a good left hook.

“Everyone has their own shit to deal with,” Enjolras growled, his voice low and heavy, “And coming from a wealthy family doesn’t change that. I’ve got a ton of crap to deal with. Just pull your head out of your ass, Grantaire.”

Enjolras brushed past Grantaire, and swung his bag over his shoulder hastily, making a beeline for the door. Just as he was about to exit, however, he paused. His angry expression disappeared, and Grantaire could have imagined it, but he looked a little hurt. “Grantaire, I regret this. Asking for your help was a bad idea, we’re too different of people. This is something I need to figure out on my own.” 

Enjolras exited the apartment and shut the door, not slamming it but closing it softly. Grantaire almost wished he had. He sunk down to the floor, holding back tears. Why did he always fuck things up with Enjolras? Enjolras was talking to him, asking for his help, with his  _ love life  _ no doubt, and if Grantaire was actually brave he could have confessed right then and there. But no, he went ahead and screwed up any remaining chance with Enjolras he had. And earned himself a black eye in the process. 

Grantaire played back their conversation and fight in his head, all the hurtful words they exchanged. He regretted everything. All of it. 

Suddenly, he remembered something he hadn’t before. “God no,” he whispered. He jumped to his feet. “No, no, no, no, no, no, nooooooo…” Grantaire grabbed a pillow from the couch and screamed into it. “I did  _ not _ just call Enjolras beautiful,” he moaned. 

And then Grantaire couldn’t help it anymore. A few tears began to roll down the sides of his face, and he cursed. Why couldn’t he hold his stupid tongue? Enjolras never acted like he had problems and Grantaire always believed him. The man was so dedicated to helping others and solving their problems that he didn’t remember to properly take care of his. 

Grantaire reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table. Enjolras was right. Everyone had shit to deal with. Accidentally or not, he had even told Grantaire what he was currently struggling with this morning. Paying the rent, keeping up his GPA, preparing for the rally...Grantaire had ignored him. Goddammit. 

Grantaire threw back the wine, greedily gulping down all the alcohol left inside. Numb the emotions. There wasn’t really anything left to do. 

Grantaire was slowly making his way over to the kitchen for another bottle when he stopped, spying a pamphlet resting on the couch near where Enjolras had been sitting. He picked it up, curious. So that was what Enjolras was rifling around in his bag for. There was a sticky note attached to the paper, and Grantaire peeled it off to read it. It said,  _ ask Grantaire to make posters for the rally. _ ” 

The raven-haired boy raised his eyebrows. Enjolras was going to ask him to make posters? Grantaire never really contributed to or participated in the Amis’s activism. He just sat in on the meetings, cracked bad jokes, and hung out with the group. 

Crumpling up the sticky note, he turned his attention to the pamphlet. It had design ideas for the posters on it as well as information that needed to be put on them. Grantaire couldn’t help but snort at the designs. They looked, simply put, like a kindergartener drew them. “You guys really need help,” he chuckled. He then bit his lip, thinking it over.  _ Enjolras _ really needed his help. 

“Dammit,” Grantaire muttered. He looked over at the kitchen, where a new bottle of wine was just waiting for him to guzzle it down. But he couldn’t do it. Not now. 

The artist trudged into his bedroom and over to his easel, where he had all of his supplies set up. He had already screwed up one chance to help out Enjolras---he wasn’t going to screw up another. Rubbing his eyes, he prepared himself for what was going to be a poster-making marathon. And then winced. 

“Forgot about the black eye,” he murmured. “Enjolras has an amazing left hook.” Grantaire smiled, even though it hurt. 

“Fuck, he’s terrible...I’m so in love.” 


	12. Tired, Tired With Nothing, Tired With Everything, Tired With the World’s Weight He had Never Chosen to Bear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjolras is confused
> 
> (but then again aren't we all)
> 
> also combeferre likes horror movies and courfeyrac does not
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwooooowww so it only took me like a whole month to update this story  
> i know, shammmeeee oonnn mmeeee!!!! *cries*
> 
> but anyway i'm so happy that you all have been liking this! i also decided i'm going to try and bring back my fun facts in honor of that, so here ya goooo!
> 
> The original Les Mis has been translated into 21 languages, which are English, Japanese, Hebrew, Hungarian, Icelandic, Norwegian, German, Polish, Swedish, Dutch, Danish, French, Czech, Castillian, Mauritian Creole, Flemish, Finnish, Argentinian, Portuguese, Estonian and Mexican Spanish. Whoa!!!! :)

Enjolras threw the apartment door open, panting. He’d ran the entire way home from Grantaire’s place, which was located almost all the way across town. He had never been  _ so _ eager to get away from the man before. Something about their interaction had made him just...sick. 

“Enj? You okay?” Combeferre was sitting on the couch with Courfeyrac, watching some horror movie. He looked Enjolras over, a concerned look on his face. “Where were you? I thought I was going to help you search for jobs tonight.” 

Beside Combeferre, Courfeyrac let out a snort. His eyes stayed glued to the television as he spoke to his friends. “He’s a ‘big boy’, ‘Ferre. You don’t have to constantly pester h---” 

Suddenly, a bloody monster with large fangs appeared on the screen, and Courfeyrac let out a high-pitched shriek. He jumped into Combeferre’s lap, eyes wide with terror. Combeferre looked bewildered at his friend’s action. His jaw dropped and he plastered his arms to his side. He seemed more embarrassed than Courfeyrac, who immediately shoved himself off of Combeferre and stood up. 

Enjolras would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling so tired. But right now, he just wanted to escape into his room. He started off in that direction, but Courfeyrac stopped him. “Can you finish this movie with ‘Ferre? He persuaded me to watch another one of his old horror films with him and I’m so fucking over it.” As if to prove his point, chainsaw noises came from the television, which was followed by an ear-piercing scream, and Courfeyrac winced. “Yeah, you guys have fun. I’m calling Jehan.” He disappeared into his room and shut the door. 

Combeferre softly chuckled at Courfeyrac’s hasty departure. He reached over for the television remote and turned it off. “What a shame,” he said, “it was just getting good. But I’ll watch this another time---I can tell you’re tired.” Enjolras gave him a weak smile in response. 

“I am and it’s pretty late, but if you’re still willing to help me look for jobs, that would be great.” 

“Of course, Enj.” Combeferre pulled out his laptop from his backpack and turned it on while Enjolras collapsed onto the couch beside him. He closed his eyes and let out a loud, frustrated sigh. Combeferre looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “Are you...okay?” 

With his eyes still closed, Enjolras leaned over and placed his head and Combeferre’s shoulder, saying nothing. Absentmindedly, Combeferre patted the top of his head and proceeded to enter his computer password. Enjolras kept his eyes shut, just listening to the clicking of the keyboard as his friend typed. He hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. 

Out of nowhere, Combeferre said, “you went to Grantaire’s after the meeting tonight,” 

Enjolras sat up straight and opened his eyes. “What?” 

Combeferre turned away from his laptop to face Enjolras. “Well, I was guessing, but it seems you did. You left the meeting early and he did shortly after you.” 

“What?” Enjolras repeated. He was thoroughly confused. 

“I apologize, I’m being nosy.” Combeferre adjusted his glasses and turned his attention back to his computer. “You’ve been really stressed lately, preparing for the rally and everything. And I fear I may have caused more stress for you by hinting that someone likes you.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out. Once the rally is over, things will be much easier. Tonight, getting a job is my biggest priority.”

With a nod, Combeferre opened Google and searched for the local job listings, silently wondering how Enjolras could be so oblivious to Grantaire’s feelings; it was getting to be a little ridiculous. His best friend, simply put, was emotionally constipated. 

The two spent hours looking for jobs on the internet, occasionally getting distracted by news alerts on Enjolras’s computer (he was subscribed to all of the local news stations and a few of the global ones---he liked to stay up to date on the events of the world) and random pop-ups on Combeferre’s computer. “‘Ferre, you get an incredible amount of advertisements about moths,” Enjolras had muttered as he scrolled past more pop-ups. “I didn’t know that was possible. How often do you search for information on moths?” 

From where he was making coffee in the kitchen, Combeferre just shrugged. “I find them fascinating. So sue me.” 

When they finally found a job for Enjolras to apply for, it was around 4 am. At that point, Enjolras was running on pure caffeine and the notion that if he didn’t persist, he wasn’t going to be able to keep up with all of his work. 

“Ok Enj, we both have class in the morning, we should try and get some rest.” Combeferre shut his laptop screen and stared expectantly at Enjolras, who shook his head. 

“No, I need to go for a walk. I need to clear my head.” 

Combeferre folded his arms. He didn’t like to argue with Enjolras, as it never ended well, but sometimes he had to. His friend didn’t take care of himself properly and Combeferre found that he had to step in to help a lot more than he would like to. As much as he admired Enjolras’s selflessness, he wished that he would take time to tend to himself. 

“Enjolras, you haven’t slept well for almost an entire week. You’re wearing yourself down. And you have only three hours before class starts, just please take this time to rest. You desperately need it.”

The blond stood up from the couch. “I know you’re trying to help, Combeferre. But right now I need to sort some things out. Sleeping isn’t going to get me anywhere.” 

Combeferre stood up as well. “Yes, it will. If you take the time to sleep, you’ll wake up feeling better and will be able to think more clearly,” he argued. 

Enjolras glared at him. “I’ll sleep when I want to,” he snapped, “right now I’m going on a walk.” 

Enjolras grabbed his coat off of the couch and made his way out of the apartment, slamming the door as he left. Combeferre sighed and unfolded his arms, defeated. He turned to retreat into his bedroom, picking up his laptop from the coffee table. He paused when he heard a crunching sound coming from the kitchen and looked up. Courfeyrac was sitting at the kitchen counter in his pajamas, eating a bowl of cereal. “Courf, what are y---”

“He acts like a toddler sometimes,” Courfeyrac said through a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. “I love the guy, but he can be a real mess.” 

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “What are you doing out here?” he asked again, ignoring Courfeyrac’s statement. 

Courfeyrac held up his bowl. “Had a sudden craving for some Captain Crunch. We didn’t have any, so I had to make do.” 

Casting a quick glance down at his watch, Combeferre winced. He now only had two hours and thirty-five minutes before class started. Hopefully, he could squeeze in a quick nap.

“Please tell me if he comes back, Courf. In the meantime, I need to get some rest.” 

Courfeyrac saluted him. “Aye, aye, captain.” 

***

Enjolras felt like he was suffocating. He would never admit it to anyone, not even Combeferre, but he was stressed out of his mind. It was a new feeling for him; Enjolras was used to pushing himself to the limit, used to overworking himself. But for some reason, this time it was getting to be too much. There were only so many hours in a day that he could work. When those hours were up, he moved into the night, and when those hours were up he moved into the next day...there was never enough time to do everything he wanted to do. What he  _ had  _ to do. He had to keep up his grades, lead the Amis and make time to hang out with them, plan their rally, and now somehow make time for a new job. It was exhausting. 

Not to mention someone was...in love with him? Enjolras stopped walking. He had momentarily forgotten about that. Combeferre seemed sure one of the Amis liked him. But how could he know? 

Enjolras went through all the Amis in his head. Courfeyrac and Jehan were dating, so it wasn’t either of them. Cosette, Marius, Joly, and Bossuet were all in relationships as well, so that ruled them out. So that left Feuilly, Grantaire, Bahorel, Combeferre, and Eponine. 

Enjolras heard rumors of Bahorel having some secret girlfriend, one that laughed way too much or something, so he decided to eliminate him. Then Feuilly as well, because more than anything, Feuilly was like a brother to him. And then Eponine....Enjolras involuntarily cringed. No. That was just...ew. 

So that left Grantaire and Combeferre. Enjolras bit his lip. It would be weird if it was Combeferre. But did he want it to be Grantaire? Grantaire seemed like he hated Enjolras, and Enjolras didn’t exactly know how he felt about him. He had tried to make amends with the artist and had even asked him for advice, but that all went away when they got into another argument and Enjolras punched him. Enjolras racked his brain, trying to remember anything that Grantaire said to him that may have indicated a crush. His mind took him back to earlier that evening, and he gasped. 

“Oh shit.” 


	13. I Wanted to Punch Him and Understand Him at the Same Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enj is stupid
> 
> so so so stupid
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote by Shannon A. Thompson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeeeeey i'm back with another chapter y'all!!! :) :) :) 
> 
> you might have noticed i changed some of the previous chapter titles...i thought some of them were a little weird, idk. but yeah! just thought i should mention it. 
> 
> also, i started another story! it's one of those 5+1 thingys. it's called "Five Times Grantaire Tried to Kiss Enjolras...and One Time He Did." you should totally check it out! ;) anyway! on with the storrryyy!

Courfeyrac was just finishing his third bowl of Frosted Flakes when Enjolras burst through the apartment door again, slamming it behind him. It startled Courfeyrac and he jumped in his seat, knocking over his cereal and spilling it all over the ground. “Dude, what is with you and slamming doors lately?” He cried. 

Enjolras didn’t hear him. “I figured it out,” he said quietly. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I’m an idiot.” 

Upon hearing Enjolras’s words, Courfeyrac’s heart began to race. He hoped this conversation was going where he thought it was. Enjolras had been oblivious to Grantaire’s feelings for too damn long; it was time he came to his senses. Was it finally happening? Taking a deep breath, Courfeyrac did his best to hide his excitement. He couldn’t contain the foolish grin spreading across his face, though. “Oh? What did you figure out?”

Before Enjolas could respond, Combeferre shuffled into the kitchen, yawning. He was wearing a pair of sweats and one of Enjolras’s old traffic-cone orange hoodies (or what Courfeyrac liked to call “disaster hoodies”---Enjolras had a horrible sense of style without his help). Courfeyrac winced when he saw Combeferre in it. “I thought I got rid of all Enjolras’s disaster hoodies,” he mumbled. 

Laughing, Combeferre said, “I saved this one. It’s comfortable.” He looked to Enjolras for support, who gave a small shrug, but said nothing. Combeferre paused. Enjolras was looking down at his feet, avoiding both of his friend’s gazes. Combeferre had never seen him look so nervous before. It was completely out of character. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” He gently placed his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. “Is everything alright?” Combeferre glanced over at Courfeyrac, who mouthed “it’s finally happening” and gave him jazz hands. He frowned and turned his attention back to Enjolras, who had finally looked up. 

“I didn’t believe you when you said someone liked me, Combeferre. I was ignoring all the signs, and it must have been infuriating for all of you...but I understand now. I’ve just...I’ve just been so blind, I…” He stopped. In the background, Courfeyrac let out an impatient whine, and Enjolras took a deep breath. 

“Combeferre...are...you’re in love with me, aren’t you?”

***

_ This is actually pretty good _ , thought Grantaire happily.  _ Maybe Enjolras will give me another chance.  _

Despite his drunken state and bruised eye, Grantaire had managed to create some decent posters for the rally. It had taken all night and multiple cups of coffee, but he did it. He couldn’t help but smile at the posters spread out across his kitchen counter, the paint on some of them still drying. They weren’t Grantaire’s best work but he was still proud, and he hoped Enjolras would be too. Or at least he would be thankful.

The artist gently touched his eye and winced at the pain it brought him; no doubt it was all black and blue now. Grantaire knew he shouldn’t have riled Enjolras up like that, but he craved his attention in any way he could get it. He just didn’t expect the leader to punch him so suddenly. Enjolras wasn’t known for being cool-headed, but he also wasn’t known to get violent quickly and without a good reason. He usually only got into fights when he was defending others or his beliefs. Grantaire felt a wave of guilt wash over him. If he wanted to get closer to Enjolras, he had to start watching his mouth. 

His phone started to buzz in his pocket and he fumbled to get it out.  _ Caller Id: Jolllly _ . Grantaire glanced at his watch; it wasn’t even 6 am yet. This could either be really bad or really good. Joly was known for calling his friends at random times, often overreacting about a crisis he was having. Grantaire, being one of Joly’s closest friends, received many if not most of his distressed calls. Usually, they weren’t too big of a deal, Grantaire just had to talk to Joly if he was stressed out. However, sometimes it would Bossuet calling him, asking him to come over because Joly was having a panic attack and he couldn’t calm him down. 

As much as Grantaire looked out for Joly, his friend looked out for him even more. On hard nights when he would go to bars and drink himself sick, Joly would come find him and bring him home. Grantaire knew he acted awful when he was drunk, too. He was mean, stubborn, and crude and tended to throw up at the worst times. By now, he must have puked in Joly and Bossuet’s car at least five times. 

Grantaire pressed the answer button on his cell phone without a second thought. “Hey,” he said, “what’s up?”

Fortunately, it was Joly who responded, not Bossuet. “Oh Grantaire, I have  _ wonderful  _ news!” Grantaire could practically hear the smile in Joly’s voice. “Bossuet and I have a date with Musichetta today, that waitress we met at the Corinthe. I forgot to tell you at the meeting last night, everyone was so worked up---” he rambled on. 

Grantaire let out a deep breath. This was one of Joly’s very unexpected, overexcited phone calls where he chattered about any big news he had to share. These calls could be a little ridiculous and even annoying at times but as long as Joly wasn’t upset and panicking, Grantaire wouldn’t complain. 

“---and I was throwing up and out of nowhere Bossuet was like, ‘Hey Joly, I got her number!’ and I just  _ died  _ Grantaire, right then and there.”

“So where are you going for your date?” Grantaire asked, rummaging around in the fridge. He’d only been half-listening to Joly’s babbling; he talked so fast it was hard to keep up. Also, his eye was beginning to throb and he needed to get some ice on it soon. 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line and Grantaire groaned. “Really, Joly? You guys haven’t thought of  _ anything _ yet?”

“We thought it would be best to figure it out during the date,” Joly said. “Oh no, is that a bad idea?” 

“You should have a few options to choose from. Otherwise, you’ll spend the entire time trying to figure out where to go.” Grantaire grabbed an icepack from the bottom of his fridge and pressed it against his eye as he spoke. He hissed in pain when the cold touched his swollen skin. “But lucky for you, I know Paris like the back of my hand.”

“Don’t say the Le Baron Rouge,” Joly pleaded. “I don’t want to take Musichetta to a wine bar on our first date.” 

Grantaire chuckled. “Their Sauvignon Blanc is fantastic, what can I say? But fine, how about  Les Deux Magots or Le Procope? They’re both wonderful cafe-brasseries.” 

“They’re also incredibly pricey,” Joly scoffed. “You have expensive taste, R.” He paused. “Hey, wasn’t there something special about Le Procope? Like, some famous person went there?” 

“Well, a lot of people did. It was kind of a hotspot in the city back when. Let’s see, there was Robespierre, Paul Verlaine, Voltaire...I don’t know any oth---” 

“No, I remember now! I was thinking of Victor Hugo,” Joly said excitedly. 

Grantaire pressed his ice pack harder against his eye. “Victor Hugo? Why is he relevant?” 

Another long pause. “I have no idea, actually,” Joly admitted. “He sounds like a bit of an ass, though.” For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Grantaire doubled over in laughter. 

***

“YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH ENJOLRAS?”

“I’M IN LOVE WITH ENJOLRAS?”

“YOU  _ ARE _ IN LOVE WITH ME?”

“What the fuck!” Courfeyrac shouted. He glanced back and forth between his best friends desperately, trying to read their expressions. Neither one of them would look at each other. This was not going to plan at all, no, no, no it was _ not _ . “What the fuck!” He repeated. 

Combeferre raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Ok, I think we all need to calm down. None of us slept last night; we’re overtired and we’ll wake up the neighbors if we keep yelling.” He looked Courfeyrac directly in the eye when he said this, clearly avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. 

Enjolras ignored his statement. “Combeferre, how long have you felt this way?” His expression was unreadable. Courfeyrac felt like grabbing Enjolras by his shoulders and screaming in his face. 

“I really don’t think this is the time to talk about our feelings Enjolras,” Combeferre said anxiously. He pushed his glasses farther up onto his nose, a nervous habit of his.

Enjolras nodded stiffly. “Fine. Let me know when you’re ready.” There was a waspish tone to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Combeferre and he let out a small sigh as the blond escaped into this bedroom. 

There was an awkward moment of silence between Courferyac and Combeferre that followed. Courfeyrac eventually broke it, slapping Combeferre gently on the back and startling him. 

“He’s so not your type,” he chuckled. 

Combeferre let out another sigh and took off his glasses, rubbing the dirt off them and onto his hoodie. “How do I tell him?” 

Courfeyrac hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think you need to worry about it. I think our emotionally constipated friend might be working things out. Slowly, very, very, slowly, but he’s working them out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i google some parisian cafes for this story? maybeeeee. :) :) :) so yeah! the Le Baron Rouge, Les Deux Magots, and Le Procope are all real places in France! and old vicky really did visit Le Procope, along with those other dudes. ya learn something new everyday....


	14. Is It Really Possible to Tell Someone Else What One Feels?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jehan's pretty sus y'all
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote by Leo Tolstoy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yiiiikkkkees it has been an embarrassingly long time since i've updated...sigh...life's been a ~thing~ lately....
> 
> but you mighta noticed that i changed the previous chapter titles...agaiiinnn, yes, i know. i'm just like that, guys! but i just figured it would help to make the titles a bit shorter, as most of them were waaayy too long. haha oops.
> 
> I was going to make this chapter longer, but I got overexcited and wanted to post what I had written early. and as you all know, I'm a sucker for cliffhangers! ;p so i'll leave it here. 
> 
> anyway, enough with all that. on with the story! :) :) :)

After Tuesday’s drama, the rest of the week passed by rather slowly for Courfeyrac. Most of his time was taken up by studying for his Survey of Dramatic Literature class, which he was currently struggling in. 

“This is total crap,” Courfeyrac grumbled. He was sprawled out across his unmade bed, trying to make sense of his (rather messy) class notes and textbook. Being a performing arts major, Survey of Dramatic Literature was a required course Courfeyrac had to take. However, he was more interested in the actual acting part that came with his degree rather than the writing and history. Either way, he had to learn it and in the long run, it would probably be helpful to know. Right now it was just a pain in the ass. 

Courfeyrac’s cell phone let out a shrill  _ ping! _ beside him, interrupting his study session. Rolling over on his side lazily, he reached over to check the message. The boy’s heart fluttered when he saw who it was from.

**_Jehan:_ ** _ Hey Courf, is this a bad time for me to come over?  _

Quickly, Courfeyrac typed back a response. 

**_Courfeyrac:_ ** _ You’re welcome at L'appartement de Courfeyrac anytime, love!  _

**_Jehan:_ ** _ Thanks. :) I’ll see you soon. _

Smiling, Courfeyrac leaned back against the headboard of his bed. He felt like a lovesick teenager again, head over heels for some boy he’d never get to form a truly meaningful relationship with. But this time, Courfeyrac knew, it was different. _ Jehan  _ was different. Jehan was unlike anyone Courfeyrac had ever dated (and, admittedly, he’d dated  _ and _ dumped a lot of people) and he made him happy in a way no one ever could before. The boy was clumsy, soft-spoken, terribly awkward, and exceedingly shy; yet Courfeyrac loved him all the more for it. The little poet truly had captured his heart. 

The chime of the doorbell awoke Courfeyrac from his daydream and he jumped, scrambling out of his room and to the front door. He flung it open with a little more enthusiasm than necessary and cried, “Jehan! Come in, love!” 

It...was not Jehan. The mailwoman stumbled back, startled at Courfeyrac’s outburst, and fell on her bottom. Courfeyrac gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he reached a hand down to pull her up and she cautiously accepted it. “I was expecting someone.”

The woman laughed nervously. “Well...I’m not them.” She gave Courfeyrac a curious look. “I haven’t seen you here before. You live in this apartment?” 

Courfeyrac nodded. He didn’t usually pick up the mail, that was Enjolras’s job. And they didn’t really receive much as it was. Why was the mailwoman here  _ personally _ delivering mail to them? 

A little suspicious, Courfeyrac leaned against the doorframe and arched an eyebrow. “Ok, I’m just going to come out and say it. You’re not here to deliver mail, are you? You could just drop it off in our box.” 

“I…” The mailwoman’s eyes widened and a deep blush spread across her cheeks. “Yes,” she confessed. “I’ve been delivering packages at your front door ever since I ran into...oh, I don’t know his name, I think it starts with an E, but I saw him at the mailboxes and he’s so…” she trailed off, a faraway look in her eyes. 

Courfeyrac sighed. Combeferre didn’t know about this or else he would have already stopped it. So great, this was up to him. “Um, listen….” 

“Manon,” the woman supplied, and Courfeyrac gave her a small smile. 

“Alright, Manon. My friend is very...dense...when it comes to anything relating to matters of the heart, and I’m sure you’re a lovely lady, but I don’t think it would be a good fit.” 

Manon looked taken aback. “Why? We’ve barely spoken, perhaps if he just gave me a chance---” 

“He bats for the other team, sweetheart,” Courfeyrac said as gently as possible. 

“Oh.” Manon did her best not to look too disappointed. She straightened her shoulders and stood up taller. “Well, uh, tell him there’s someone out there who admires him very much,” she said quietly. “I hope he finds someone just as special as him someday.” With a tiny wave, she shuffled back to her van. 

Courfeyrac chewed on his bottom lip. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, watching the woman drive away. “Enjolras isn’t even here and he’s breaking hearts.” 

“Ah, vous qui souffrez parce que vous aimez, aimez plus encore. Mourir d'amour, c'est en vivre.” 

Courfeyrac spun around, grinning. “Prouvaire!” He ruffled the ginger’s hair fondly. “You snuck up on me!” 

Jehan shrugged, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. “So, Enjolras has another admirer?” 

Courfeyrac chuckled. “Add her to the long list. Still, I can’t help but feel a bit bad---he’s so oblivious to it all. But here, enough of that, come inside!” He grabbed the hand that Jehan didn’t have stuffed into his pocket and pulled him into the apartment. “‘Ferre’s at a lecture and Enj is out running some errands, so for now we have the place to ourselves.” 

Jehan followed Courfeyrac as he gave a tour of the apartment, pointing out random objects and babbling on about stories he had about each of them. It was ridiculous, but it was so Courfeyrac. Only he could turn a tour of a three-bedroom apartment into a 20-minute long excursion. Jehan smiled. If it was anybody else, he would have gotten annoyed and extremely bored five minutes in, but Courfeyrac had a special way of capturing your attention and drawing you in. And it helped that the stories he had to tell were very entertaining as well. 

“See this group photo on the wall of the Les Amis? Well, Enj hates it.” 

Jehan made a face and Courfeyrac laughed. “No, no! The thing is, he used to love it. And I’m sure he still does secretly, he’s just a big drama queen. Now, here’s the kicker, love--” Courfeyrac lifted the frame off of its mount to reveal a hole in the wall. Jehan gasped. 

“I’ll be honest with you, it was my fault,” Courfeyrac said. “But I won a bet with R. When I told him I did karate as a kid he didn’t believe me, so I sent him a video of me doing a roundhouse kick---”

“And you smashed into the wall,” Jehan finished. 

Courfeyrac grinned. “Correct. I got 20 bucks, though.” 

The ginger gave his boyfriend a look. “And Enjolras’s fury, I presume?” 

“Yes, but he’s over it now. Mostly.” Courfeyrac put the photo back and held his hand out for Jehan, who took it. “Sorry, I talked way longer than I meant to. Is there something you wanted to talk about?” 

There was, but Jehan wasn’t sure if he was ready to yet. So instead, he asked, “do you have tea?” 

Lighting up, Courfeyrac said “I bought some just for you. You like Verveine, right?”

Jehan nodded. “That’s perfect, Courf.” 

“I’ll make it, then! Go ahead and make yourself comfy, Prouvaire. I’ll be out in a minute.” Courfeyrac pressed a quick kiss to Jehan’s cheek and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Jehan waited until Courfeyrac was completely gone before letting out a shaky breath. This was going to be much harder than he thought. 


	15. What if Everything in the World Were a Misunderstanding, What if Laughter Were Really Tears?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *sad noises* 
> 
> (Chapter title is a quote from Søren Kierkegaard)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 15!!!! woohooooo! here we go everyone!
> 
> i'm so tired right now :p

“I know something’s bothering you.” 

Jehan paused, mid-sip of his tea. He and Courfeyrac were curled up together on the latter’s couch, watching a documentary on Animal Planet. Every now and again, Courfeyrac would let out an excited cry when a cute animal came on the screen and Jehan would giggle at his partner’s silliness. He was such a dork. Well, they were  _ both _ dorks. Courfeyrac and Jehan were some kind of dorky match made in heaven. 

“What?” Jehan put his mug down on the coffee table, making sure to place it on a coaster. He had almost forgotten why he had even come to the triumvirate’s apartment. But...yeah. They should probably talk. 

Courfeyrac paused the documentary, turning to Jehan with a concerned look in his eyes. “I know you, love. What’s wrong?” 

Jehan shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He wished that the documentary was back on and that they were laughing again instead of having this conversation. But it was long overdue; he knew he had a fair amount of things to explain.

“You remember that night when...when I was robbed,” Jehan started, nervous. Courfeyrac nodded, a weird look flashing through his eyes. 

“Jehan, were you robbed again? One time is serious enough but twice---”

“No, no, I wasn’t. It’s not...quite like that.” He took a deep breath. “I lied. I wasn’t robbed. Not really.” 

Courfeyrac frowned slightly but didn’t say anything. Jehan looked away, embarrassed. Courfeyrac didn’t frown easily. Still, Jehan pushed on. “It was my ex, Montparnasse. We only went out for a few months...I broke up with him after I found out he was in a gang, the Patron-Minette, and he didn’t handle it well. And he still doesn’t. Montparnasse has been trying to convince me to get back together ever since we broke up. He used to spam my number until I blocked him and followed me around until I got a restraining order against him.” 

“And he still approached you that night?” Courfeyrac felt his breath catch in his throat. There was that  _ feeling  _ again. Courfeyrac was unfamiliar with feeling anger towards people, especially towards someone he didn’t know, but this was Jehan. He felt an extreme urge he’d never felt with anyone else before, an urge to do everything he could to protect him. 

Jehan looked down into his lap. “Yes. Even with the order, he continues to find me every now and again. There’s not much else I can do about it. But he’s never violent, just pushy.” Jehan looked up at Courfeyrac, who had a doubtful look on his face. “When we were dating, Montparnasse was very controlling and insolent. I didn’t feel comfortable sharing any of my poetry or journaling with him and it really irritated him, he’d bother me about it all the time. Some stuff I write about is very…” The poet bit his lip and looked away. There was only so much he could share right now. “...personal. Montparnasse took my bag at the bar, which had my journal in it. He told me he found out I was in Les Amis through social media and knew about our protest, and then threatened to sabotage it with the Patron-Minette.” 

Courfeyrac was silent for a moment, just letting Jehan’s words sink in. It was a lot. When he opened his mouth to respond, he chose his words carefully, as opposed to blurting whatever came to mind like he usually did. “Jehan,” he started slowly, “Why haven’t you talked about this before? Montparnasse, I mean. If you told us all beforehand we could have helped, we can still help---” 

Jehan scrubbed his face with his hands. He suddenly felt exhausted. Not because of Courfeyrac,  _ never  _ because of Courfeyrac; discussing all of his drama with Montparnasse just drained him emotionally. “I didn’t think I should. Montparnasse was a bad decision  _ I  _ made, so he’s my problem to deal with. But he went too far when he threatened the rest of the Les Amis and our protest. I knew I had to tell you then.” 

“Love, he went too far the first time he disrespected you.” Courfeyrac pulled Jehan close to him, wrapping him in his arms. The ginger snuggled further into his comforting embrace, grateful for the warmth and momentary escape. They stayed like that for a while, Courfeyrac gently running his fingers through Jehan's bangs and almost lulling him to sleep. 

“Montparnasse is a terrible person,” his partner whispered, just as Courfeyrac was nodding off, “and I’m ashamed and mad at myself for ever believing I loved him and he loved me. ” 

Courfeyrac stopped stroking Jehan’s hair. Reaching over, he took his hands in his own and intertwined their fingers. In response, Jehan gave him a small, tired smile, and Courfeyrac placed a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“Yet, my dear Jean Prouvaire, you are intrepid.” 

***

It was  _ weird _ not talking to Enjolras. Combeferre didn’t think they’d ever gone this long without speaking. They hadn’t ever gotten in a big fight before either, just little disagreements that were resolved within minutes.  _ Was _ this a fight? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like...well, like a part of him was missing. Combeferre and Enjolras had been best friends since they were toddlers; together, they navigated the ups and downs of life, being each other’s wingmen for dates, making friends with a rambunctious kid named Courfeyrac, graduating high school, buying a shared apartment, and now, leading the Les Amis de l’ABC. Throughout their lives, they had  _ always _ been there for each other. But now, Combeferre had fucked up and Enjolras was giving him the cold shoulder. 

Combeferre leaned his head against the car window, watching the buildings zoom past. He had called an Uber instead of driving himself to the coffee shop. Enjolras had borrowed his Volvo, and while he didn’t really care, he just wished they could have gone together. After all, this was their designated study day. 

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the low rumble of the car engine and the upbeat tune playing on the driver’s radio. Combeferre knew Enjolras better than anyone in the world. But did he not know him well enough to see that he was in love with him? Combeferre had a hard time believing it, as Enjolras was like a brother to him and he had always treated Combeferre like a brother too. That and he had never seen Enjolras interested in  _ anyone _ romantically before, for all the 24 years that he had known him. 

But still. 

The car rolled to a stop and Combeferre opened his eyes, bringing himself back to the present. He grabbed his backpack and tipped the driver before stepping out of the vehicle. Enjolras had been avoiding him all week whenever he tried to start a discussion, at the apartment, at the university...and Combeferre was finally done with him disregarding his attempts to solve their problem. It wasn’t like Enjolras to avoid facing an issue, but Combeferre knew that this one probably hit a little too close to home, whether or not he really was in love with him. 

Combeferre readjusted his backpack on his shoulders before entering the coffee shop, La Compagnie du Cafe. It was a small place with a modern-ish vibe and decent food, but what really kept Enjolras and Combeferre coming back was their unique coffee roasts. That and it wasn’t Starbucks, and “if you go to Starbucks you’re just feeding the capitalist pigs that run this country, ‘Ferre! You  _ need _ to support small businesses---” 

The man chuckled at the memory of Enjolras passionately chattering to him about the importance of going to local shops and restaurants. God, he really did miss his best friend. 

Determined, Comebeferre ventured a little deeper into the cafe, looking for the spot where he and Enjolras usually sat to do their studying. He lit up when he saw a familiar head of blond hair there, sipping a sugary caramel drink. Combeferre waved a hand to catch his attention. “Enj--” 

He paused.  _ There was someone sitting across the table from Enjolras.  _ Combeferre’s eyes widened in surprise. He ducked out of the cafe and stepped back onto the street. Fuck, it was raining. How had it started raining so quickly? There hadn’t even been too many clouds in the sky, just a few…

Combeferre took shelter under an awning a few stores away from the coffee shop and pulled out his phone to call another Uber. All of his plans had gone out the window. With a sigh, he wrapped his jacket tighter around his body. It was fine, he’d find a way to talk to Enjolras when he got back home. Combeferre cared too much about his friendship with Enjolras to let it go like this. He’d take the time to understand his feelings and they’d work it out, just like they always did. 

Combeferre shot a quick look back at La Compagnie du Cafe, a small, melancholic smile on his face. 

Right now, Enjolras could sit and talk with Grantaire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also yeah i may have googled more Parisian cafes to get inspiration for this story...yep La Compagnie du Cafe is a real place...you should totally look it up! :)


End file.
